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THE JOURNAL
OF
MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
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i
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MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF, 1884.
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THE JOURNAL
OF
MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
TRANSLATED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION,
BY
MATHILDE BLIND.
WITH TWO PORTRAITS.
CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited:
LONDON, PARIS # MELBOURNE.
1890.
[all rights reserved.]
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CT
•• •
FEB ^ ; - >
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CONTENTS.
PAGE
Introduction . vii
Preface —
Birthplace — Parentage — Visions of Future Greatness — Russian and
French Governesses — Mile. Sophie Dolgikoff — Departure from Russia
— Baden-Baden — First Drawing-Lessons at Geneva .... xxix
CHAPTER I.
1873.
Nice. — Beginning of Journal — First Love — The Power of Song — A Plan
of Study — Disillusion 1
CHAPTER II.
1874.
Nice. — Russian New Year Superstitions — Mother's Illness— Personal
Appearance — The Two Selves — Pleasures of Misery — Florence — Cen-
tenary of Michael Angelo -The Old Masters 27
CHAPTER III.
1875.
Nice. — A Song in the Market-place — A Prophetic Dream . . 40
CHAPTER IV.
1876.
Rome. — The Follies of the Carnival — Pietro A A Wild Ride in
the Campagna — A Roman Lover — A Romantic tete-a-tete — An Offer
of Marriage— An Interview with a Clairvoyant— First Journey to
Russia — Meeting with Father — Country Life in the Ukraine — A
Group of Admirers — Paris 48
CHAPTER V.
1877.
Naples. — The Carnival— Marie Bashkirtseff and the King of Italy-
Count Doenhoff — Nice— Homer — Schlangenbad — Paris— Art — De-
cision to Devote Her Life to It 250
CHAPTER VI.
1878.
Paris. — The Atelier Julian— Death of Walitzky— A Devoted Suitor—
The Waters at Soden— Robert Fleury— Rivalry with Breslau— Hopes
and Fears for Her Future as an Artist . . • . • 301
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vi CONTENTS.
CHAPTER VIL
1879. *ao*
Paris. — Painting, Modelling — Death of the Prince Imperial — Marriage
of Paul BashkirtBeff 347
CHAPTER VIII.
1880.
Paris. — First Salon Picture — Portrait of Woman Reading — Illness —
Mont Dore — The Disabilities of Women — Picture of the Stu<no7~""* . 390
CHAPTER IX.
1881.
Paris. — Ill-health— J)eaiiifisa=-Second Journey to Russia— Pilgrimage
to~~Kieff— Triifto Spain— A Bull Fight— Toledo— A Convict Prison
— Velasquez — Pleurisy 447
CHAPTER X.
1882.
Paris.— Art — Bastien-Lepage — Fall of Gambetta — Sketch of the Two
Maries — Gavronri— Two Russian Princes — Saint Marceaux .518
CHAPTER XI.
1883.
Paris.— Gambetta's Funeral— Jean et Jacques — Father's Death — An
Autumnal Landscape — Sculpture — Fame 578
CHAPTER XII.
1884.
Paris. — Le Meeting — Popular Success — A Spring Landscape— Prater —
A Social Triumph— The Poetry of the Street — Bastien-Lepage's
Illness — Last Days 646
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INTRODUCTION.
An autobiography such as this Journal of Marie Bashkirtseff —
a book in the nude, breathing and palpitating with life so
to say — has never, to my knowledge, been given to the world.
In some sense, therefore, its publication may be looked
upon as a literary event. To read it is an education in
psychology. For in this startling record a human being
nas chosen to lay before us " the very pulse of the machine, '
to show us the momentary feelings and impulses, the unin-
vited back-stair thoughts passing like a breath across
our consciousness, which we ignore for the most part
when presenting our mental harvest to the public. Is
it well, is it ill done to make the world our father confessor,
to take it into our most intimate and secret confidence ?
Difficult to say, but in any case it is supremely interesting.
For it is like possessing one of the much envied fairy gifts
which enabled one to see through stone walls and to hear the
thoughts as they passed throuffn a man's head. We may like
this book or not ; we may find the personality revealed in it
adorable or repellent ; but no one can deny that it is a genuine
addition to our knowledge of human nature. " In any case,"
as its young author says, with striking penetration, " it is at
least interesting as a human document," and more particularly
so as a document about feminine nature, of which as yet we
know so little. Indeed, most of our knowledge comes to us
second-hand, through the medium of men with their cut-
and-dried theories as to what women are or ought to be.
Now here is a girl, the story of whose life as told by
herself may be called the drama of a woman's soul ; at odds
with destiny, as such a soul must needs be, when endowed
with great powers and possibilities, under the present social con-
ditions ; where the wisn to live, of letting whatever energies you
possess have their full play in action, is continually thwarted
by the impediments ana restrictions of sex. A girl with the
ambition of a Csesar — as she herself says — smouldering under
her crop of red golden hair, has a hard time of it though her
head repose on aown pillows edged with the costliest of laces ;
such a girl may well be fretted into a fever by the loving care
of her affectionate aunts and uncles, and grandparents, &c. &c.
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viii MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Did we but know it the same revolts, the same struggles,
the same helpless rage, have gone on in many another woman's
life for want of scope for her latent powers and faculties.
But Marie Bashkirtseff* is too complex and versatile a
nature to be taken in illustration of any particular theory ;
she is made up of heterogeneous elements, and her muta-
bility of mood is a constant surprise to the reader. She
never wholly yields herself up to any fixed rule of conduct,
or even passion, being swayed this way or that by the
intense impressionability of her nature. She herself recog-
nises this anomaly in the remark : " My life can't endure ;
I have a deal too much of some things and a deal too little
of others, and a character not made to last." The very
intensity of her desire to seize life at all points seems to
defeat itself, and she cannot help stealing side glances at
ambition during the most romantic tete-d-tete with a lover, or
of being tortured by visions of unsatisfied love when art should
have engrossed all her faculties. For she wants everything
at once — whatever success Fortune has to offer its favourites,
the glamour of youth and beauty, rank and wealth with
their glittering gifts, the artist's fame, the power of a queen
of society — all, all, or nothingness! She hardly realised in
her passionate self-absorption and egotism how much she
asked, or what a niggard Fate is to tne claims of individual
man. I was strangely reminded of her on my return from
Paris last autumn, where I had been to see her pictures and
the house with its splendid studio where the last years of
Marie BashkirtsefTs life were spent Near me, on the Calais
boat, sat a beautiful little French boy between three and four
{rears old, staring intently at the sea below. Suddenly he
ooked round and asked, as if the thought had just struck
him, " Is this the sea, Mamma ? " On her replying in the
affirmative, he said in the most matter-of-fact tone, " Mamma,
I want to drink up the whole sea."
" Mamanje vottdrais boire toute la mer? said this delicate,
golden-haired mite of a boy, his earnest eyes fixed on the
welter of waters just lit for a moment with the stormy
crimson of a sudden sunset. This wish — childish but not un-
natural where the limits of personality are unrealised — seemed
like an echo, the mocking echo of Marie BashkirtsefTs life.
Did not she too want to drink up the whole sea, the
whole of life, embracing the entire circle of sensations, but
finding only a few poor pitiful spoonfuls doled out to her
instead, dash herself to pieces, in her ineffectual rage at
the obstacles she encountered. How well she knew herself
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INTRODUCTION. ix
is shown by her saying, "If I could keep a little quieter
I might live another twenty years." But she was too in-
tensely modern .for repose. Born in an age of railways and
electric telegraphs, she wanted to live by steam. Terribly
moving, when we remember the sequel, is that bitter cry ot
hers, the very burden of her Journal : " Oh, to think that
we live but once and that life is so short ! When 1 think
of it I am quite beside myself, and my brain reels with
despair" ....
" We live but once, and my time is being wasted in the
most unworthy fashion. These days which are passing are
passing never to return.
" We live but once ! And must life, so short already, be
shortened still further ; must it be spoilt — nay, stolen — yes,
stolen by infamous circumstances ?"
This violent temperament, full of stress and tumult, may
be partly due to the opposing tendencies of heredity and
actual circumstances. For Marie Bashkirtseff, although in
a measure the product of modern French life, and moulded
by cosmopolitan influences, is nevertheless intensely Russian.
Her personality is a singular mixture of untutored instincts
joined to an ultra-modern subtlety of brain and nerves.
She has the wild Cossack blood in her veins, but on her
back the last fashionable novelty by Worth. Her religion
offers the same curious compound of primitive idolatry and
philosophical reasoning. Not only is she apt, as Mr. Glad-
stone so happily expresses it, " to treat the Almighty as she
treated her grandfather, en igal" the nature of her prayers is
essentially similar to a savage's worship of his idol — inclined
to be extremely devout if his requests are granted ; but likely
to turn restive and make away with his fetish if the latter
remains deaf to him. And tne singularity is that while
she is acting her religious part with immense fervour,
devoutly saying her prayers as she kneels on the floor,
she doesn't believe m God at all Indeed, she acutely
dissects the nature of religious beliefs, while continuing
in her half-belief; for, as she says in her naive cynicism,
" cela 71 engage & rien." Yet she was full of profound in-
tuitions — unexpected flashes of insight that opened out
perspectives into the. infinite mysteries of spiritual experi-
ence. She startles the reader every now and then in the
very midst of her wounded vanities and lamentations over
her wasted life of sixteen summers by assuring him that she
is not to be taken quite seriously, that, after all, it is not
so very sad, and that the sadnesss itself and the sighs, the
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x MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
tears and the wringing of hands, are part of the play at
which the other Ego — the over-soul as Emerson would say —
is all the time present as at a spectacle. This unknown factor
of human consciousness, aloof and indifferent to misery
and pain — nay, even enjoying misery and pain — is often
referred to by the youthful writer, showing tnat Marie was
above all a liorn critic of life — love and sorrow, passion and
pain serving but as the raw material for the development of
thought and analysis. In this respect her Journal is a far
more complete expression of her individuality than her pic-
tures are. And it is possible that the novel — the most modern
of all forms of art — might have afforded the fullest scope
for the development of her genius. For the novel, treated
with the conscientious precision of scientific analysis,
is the distinctive feature of Russian literature. But the
question is whether she was not too much taken up
with herself to enter into other lives with the sympathetic
insight required for the delineation of human character.
Be that as it may, she has produced a book of more
absorbing interest than any novel can ever be — a book
with all the attraction of romance, and yet a mirror reflect-
ing life in its passage from day to day. Indeed, the unique
interest of this Journal arises from the fact that the writer, in
the very ardour of the moment, finds relief in recording her
impressions ; and while in the act of experiencing a variety of
sensations, she is yet able to treat herseli, and others in contact
with herself, as objects of dispassionate observation, to be used
with minute fidelity in the representation of human existence.
In order to understand this composite, abnormal, prema-
turely-developed nature, it is necessary to have some know-
ledge of her family and circumstances. Marie Bashkirtsefl' was
born at Poltava, in the Ukraine, on the 11th of November, 1860.
The vast steppes and stirring traditions of her native land
form the appropriate background for this extraordinary child,
fall of quenchless ardour and explosive force. Her father, the
son of General Paul Gregorievitch Bashkirtsefl', was a wealthy
landed proprietor, belonging to the Russian gentry, and Mare-
chal de Noblesse, in the above-mentioned town. In some
respects he seems to have been a specimen of that type of
Russian noble which Tolstoi* has so inimitably portrayed in
Oblonsky, the brother of Anna Kar6nine, the gay Lothario who
makes love to his wife's governess, and drives poor Dolly to
distraction. M. Bashkirtsefl', some members of whose family
had died of consumption, took to wife a MUe. Babanine, a tall,
healthy, and beautiful young girl, whose family were of older
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INTRODUCTION. xi
nobility than his own, being of supposed Tartar origin, " of
the first invasion." Marie's maternal grandfather was a fine
specimen of the nobleman of the generation which had been
stirred by the poems of Poushkine and Lermontoff. He was
enlightened and studious, had written verse in Byron's style,
and served in the Caucasus, and, while still very young, got
married to a girl of fifteen, a Mile. Cornelius, who bore him a
family of nine children. The union of Marie's parents not
proving a happy one, chiefly owing to M. Bashkirtseff 's persist-
ence in sowing his wild oats after marriage, the young wife left
him after a few years of wedded misery, and returned to
her parents, with her two children, Paul and Marie. They
lived all together at Tcherniakowka, M. Babanine's country
house, whose exquisitely laid-out grounds evinced the artistic
taste of their proprietor. Marie, then a frail and delicate child,
became the idol of her grandmother and of her aunt — the
unmarried sister of Mme. Bashkirtseff A fortune-teller,
whom Marie's mother consulted, predicted : " Your son will be
like the rest of the world, but your daughter will be a star."
In 1870, after the death of her mother, Mme. Bash-
kirtseff left Russia, accompanied by her father, her unmarried
sister, her little niece Dina, Walitzky, the faithful family doctor,
governesses, nurses, and dogs of various descriptions. They
went to Vienna, travelled through Germany, and oecame hence-
forth part of that floating Russian population which drinks the
waters at Baden-Baden, stakes its thousands at Monte Carlo,
and looks upon Paris as its earthly paradise. Thus, from the
age of ten, Marie may be said to have begun seeing the world ;
and she kept her eyes and ears wide open all the time, taking
object lessons in life, learning many things which might have
been more wisely left unlearned. Glimpses of fashionable
society at Baden-Baden gave her many a pang of unsatisfied
vanity. Yet her thirst for distinction did not suffer her to rest
idle. From the age of four, we are told, visions of future
greatness had haunted her brain. She imagines herself in
turn the first dancer, the finest singer, the most accomplished
harp-player in existence ; she electrifies masses of men by
the magnetism of her eloquence ; she dreams of marrying
the Czar, and so saving his throne by inaugurating social
reforms which shall bless the Sovereign and his people.
True, this was in her nursery days, if such days ever existed
for her. But, in any case, she is determined to play a
leading part on the stage of life.
Her Journal, the earlier portions of which she destroyed,
opens at Nice in January, 1873, when she was twelve years
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xii MARIE BA8HKIBT8EFF.
old. It is written in French, as Marie possessed but an
imperfect knowledge of Russian. Like most great poets,
from Dante to Byron, she was bound to fall in love at this
early stage of her existence. But no rapt and saintly vision
clotned in the purity of dawn passes across her vision;
this child of the nineteenth century is of the earth earthy,
and fully alive to the value of a coronet. For she fixed her
affections on an English duke, the most conspicuous figure
amid the brilliant throng driving along the Promenade des
Anglais. It is difficult to make out how much of her adora-
tion is due to the classical features of this horsey Briton, and
how much to the faultless appointment of his four-in-hand.
Of course, they had never met or exchanged a word, and
the noble duke was ignorant of the very existence of this
funny little girl in short frocks within whose soul his me-
mory burned like a lamp. A poor ideal at the best for a
devotee to kneel before, but such as it was it was kept alight
for a couple of years or so, being finally quenched by the
announcement of the duke's marriage, which rudely dispelled
the day-dream once for alL Marie suffered agonies for a
time, agonies quite different, she confesses, from " what I
formerly endured when a wall paper or a piece of furniture
displeased me."
But amid the distractions of imaginary love-dreams, of
change and travel, this young girl managed to acquire a
surprising amount of knowledge. She threw herself into
study witn the same passionate intensity that marks her life in
all its phases. At thirteen she drew up a plan of study which
she had thought out as carefully as though she were preparing
to take a degree. She learned English, Italian, and German,
Latin and Greek, drawing and music. But music was her most
engrossing interest at tnis time, for her magnificent voice
might have helped her to realise her wildest dreams had it
not been early impaired by the fatal disease which ultimately
ruined it. Education in the moral sense of the word — which
would have helped to supply that moderation and harmony of
the faculties, for want of which she probably perished earlier
than she otherwise might have done — she haa absolutely none.
There was not a member of her family, indeed, capable of
guiding or controlling her, and while acquiring knowledge
and accomplishments of all kinds with intuitive facility, she
remained in regard to moral training as undisciplined as a
wild colt of the steppes. She was too keen an observer not
to admit some years later that while her family had spoilt
her in her childhood, it had done nothing to aid her
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INTRODUCTION. xiii
development For in spite of their eccentricity they were
commonplace people after all, indolent as only Russians know
how to be, given to endless procrastination, enough to drive an
energetic nature crazy. Though always more or less on the
move, it took them weeks before they fairly got under way,
and this interregnum, when the furniture would be stowed
away, the domestic arrangements upset, the boxes ready
packed in the passage, used to drive Marie, who hated
interruptions, half frantic.
The journey through Italy, with the sight of its churches,
palaces, museums, and picture-galleries, was a new and thrilling
interest to Mile. Bashkirtseft', a born artist down to her pretty
pink finger tips ; her fashion of seeing, admiring, criticising
the most celebrated masterpieces of painting and sculpture
is refreshingly amusing and original. She takes nothing on
trust. She is undaunted by names that have gathered
authority from the suffrages of centuries. What most closely
resembles nature, she says, pleases her most. The ideality of
Raphael, the magic of Titian, the haunting mystery of
Leonardo, leave her unawed, and she utters strange heresies —
which give the relish of a sauce piquante to her crude and
youthful criticisms, containing always a considerable admixture
of truth, as when she is speaking of the card-board painting of
Raphael, and the magnificent but stupid Venuses of Titian —
enough to make the orthodox in art shudder ! Why should
this young observer take it for granted that those old masters
are so impeccable? She comes of a new race and looks at
things from a new point of view. She has little reverence
less awe, no gratitude for the sacred debt we owe to the past.
She, a child of fifteen, pronounces judgment on the masters of
Venice and Florence. But how difficult it is to steer clear between
abject conformfty and parrot-like repetition of long accepted
verdicts on the one hand, and on tne other an originality of
view which leaves you entirely at the mercy of your personal
idiosyncrasy. However eccentric at times, Marie Bashkirtseff 's
opinions have, at any rate, always the merit of being home-made.
It may be said she was a born impressionist. Long before
she had ever heard of the existence of such a school she
belonged to it. It was in the air ; and being as sensitive as a
thermometer she answered to all the changes in the intel-
lectual atmosphere of her time. Nothing is more singular
than the way in which she reflects the political events of
the daj. She seems intuitively to feel the public pulse,
and without any personal object in view to change as it
changes as naturally as a chameleon alters its colour
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xiv MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
according to the objects by which it happens to be
surrounded. In this respect she would have made a capital
leader writer. Indeed, among her innumerable ambitions
was that of writing for one of the French papers, and one
of the finest pieces of style in her Journal is unques-
tionably the glowing description of Gambetta's funeral. At
such times tne excessive egotism which fills the universe
with her personality is obliterated, and her enthusiasm and
eloquence carry everything before them. For she has the
power of letting her soul be swept out by the wave of some
great national emotion ; only to recoil back upon herself,
as, for example, when she confesses to wondering whether
some caller had given her credit for the tears she had shed
over Gambetta's death.
But to take up the biographical thread again. The stay
at Rome in 1876 marks a fresh period in Mane Bashkirtseff s
development. The city of the Csesars and the Popes, with its
historic greatness fallen into decay, yet so glorious still, acts
upon her like strong wine. " Its beauties and ruins intoxicate
me," she exclaims in her enthusiasm, and with her wonted
impulse to become that which she admires, she wants to be
u Caesar, Augustus, Marcus Aurelius, Nero, Caracalla, the Devil,
the Pope!" Her brain and blood were on fire, her beauty
increased in charm, her intellect in subtlety ; with her unique
power of assimilation she became a portion of that fierce,
dreamy, enchanted Roman life. Wonders of art and history,
rides on the Corso, balls and masquerades of the Carnival,
with youth and love and beauty sweetening the whole — what
more can mortal want ? A romance with all the accessories
complete ! Pietro A , the dark-eyed young Roman " with
a moustache of twenty-three," was in turn passionate and
playful, soft yet daring, with that finished grace and per-
fection of manner which come natural to the thoroughbred
Italian. This nephew of a powerful Cardinal, possibly of a
future Pope, was not a suitor to be wholly scorned nor yet to
be heartily accepted. He had no great career in view, was still
dependent on his family for support, and skimmed along the
surface of life like the gay butterfly he was. But this fichu
fils de pr&re, as she mocking-ly calls him in her diary, had a
potent charm for the ambitious young Russian — a charm
which made her loth to let him go, and long for his return.
Was it first love or the fancy of an hour, the caprice of a
coquette or an experiment in love-making ? Perhaps a little
of all these, for with so complex a nature, analytical at once
and emotional, it was difficult for her to be quite genuine and
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INTRODUCTION. xv
simple. But since her own account of the matter is a mass
of contradictions, how shall any outsider determine whether
her heart had been really touched, or merely the " feminine
envelope " which was so excessively feminine. There is the
description of that wild ride in the Campagna ; of those long
evening hours when sitting apart from tne rest she listened to
Pietro's passionate declarations of love with his burning eyes
thrilling ner pulses ; of that secret midnight interview at the
foot of the staircase in the gloomy old palace, with its inane
repetitions of " I love you ' and the bewildering glances and
heart throbs ; and that Kiss on the mouth which, for months
and years afterwards, stung her with intolerable shame when-
ever she remembered it — all these glowing moments seem
to rise up with an assurance that she loved ner Roman lover
for the time being — probably the happiest time of her life.
But she never lost herself in her love. Either it was not
strong enough, or she was too strong for it Her egotism, her
microscopic analysis of her own ana her lover's feelings, her
craving ambition, which made her regard marriage as the
ladder by which to reach the palaces, pictures, jewels, all the
glittering accidents of fortune for wnich she thirsted — all
these counter currents of her nature acted as opposing
influences, and diminished her capability for love. For the
rest, some years later, she declares love to be an impossi-
bility to her. " Would you really know the truth ? " she cries.
" Well, then, I am neither painter, sculptor, nor musician,
neither woman, daughter nor friend! Everything finally
resolves itself into a subject for observation, reflection, and
analysis. A look, a voice, a face, a joy, a pain, are
immediately weighed, examined, noted and classified, and
when I have noted it down I am content" What is this
but saying in other words that she is a poet, a painter, a
pyschologist, and that her brain, in its enormous activity, draws
to itself and consumes all the other elements of her being.
In her poem, " A Musical Instrument," Mrs. Browning has
expressed something of the same kind by that metaphor of
the reed that has had the pith taken out of it, and henceforth
gives forth the sweetest sounds at Pan's bidding, but will
never grow again * as a reed with the reeds in the river."
Everything was tending to concentrate Marie BashkirtsefFs
thoughts on art. It opened to her a refuge in which her self-
tormeiiting soul might find some peace by giving her an
outlet for her restless energy. The great match she had
sometimes planned with cool worldlmess, seemed beyond
her reach. Even the journey to Russia, whither Marie went
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xvi MARIE BA8HKIBT8EFF.
to bring about some sort of reconciliation between her
parents, with a view to her own settlement in life, had no
result so far. She boasted many devoted slaves, admirers
who gratified her insatiable vanity, but most of them, man-
like, after having been attracted by her personal fascination
dropped off frightened at her vast superiority to themselves.
As for her, she would none of them, and one after another of
her parents' matrimonial arrangements fell to the ground.
After the brilliant experiences of Nice, Rome, and Paris,
provincial life in Russia, when the first novelty had worn off,
proved rather flat
The manners and customs of her countrymen repelled
and shocked her in many ways. During her second visit in
1882 to Gavronzi, her father's country house, two young
princes, Victor and Basil, came to see them, evidently appear-
ing on the scene as desirable suitors for Marie's hand. They
were apparently men of the world, the eldest having an air
of distinction, and she had taken a good deal of pains
with her own appearance in honour of these young nobles.
But what were her sensations when she saw the youngest, the
Prince Basil, kicking and digging his spurs into his coach-
man, who had got drunk according to his wont. No wonder
she had a creepy feeling down her spine, and was eager to get
away from a country whose people crawl in the dust before
such men as these.
Art, always the delight, now became the master-passion of
Marie Bashkirtseff, and in 1877 she finally determined to
devote her life to it About this time she speaks quaintly
enough of the old age of her youth; indeed, living as she
did so much faster than ordinary mortals, years were hardly
the measure of her age. At any rate, she had already
outlived many illusions, cast many things behind her, and
knew a good deal of what was going on behind the scenes of
life. When she entered Julians life-school in Paris, where
women, though working in a separate atelier, enjoyed pre-
cisely the same advantages as the male art students, she
registered a solemn vow : " In the name of the Father and the
Son, and the Holy Ghost ! I have decided to live in Paris,
where I shall study, and in the summer go for recreation to
the springs. All my fancies are over, and I feel that the
time has come for me to take a step. This is no ephemeral
decision like so many others, but a final one ; and may the
Divine protection be with me ! " From a life of change and
excitement she now passed to the monotony of real hard work.
Each morning at nine she was driven to the studio, going
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INTRODUCTION. xvii
home for the twelve o'clock dSjeuner, and returning at one for
the afternoon. Her astonishing capacity became a wonder to
her masters, who would hardly believe that she had had no
previous instruction save the regulation school-girl lessons.
Her daily progress is minutely recorded in the Journal with
constant changes from elation to despondency. She flung
her whole ardent soul into her work with a fierce determina-
tion to conquer the technique of her art, and she had every en-
couragement to persevere, Julian assuring her one day that
her draughtsmanship, considering the shortness of time she had
been at work, was actually phenomenal. " Take your drawing,"
he said, " take it to any of our first artists, I don't care whom,
and ask him how much time is required to draw from the life
like that, and no one — do you hear ? — no one will believe it
possible to have done it in less than a year ; and then tell them
that after a month or six weeks you draw from the life with
that solidity and power." After eleven months of study the
medal was awarded to Mile. Bashkirtseff by Robert Fleury,
Bouguereau, Lefevre, Boulanger, and Cot.
Little by little a great change came over her. She
grew more serious, concentrated, and profound. A deeper
sympathy stirred within her, a keener perception of the
many-coloured humanity aroimd. Her bosom-thoughts were
not entirely given to the favourites of fortune, she dwelt
occasionally on the outcast by the wayside, on the child-waif
housed by the street. True, there was a picturesqueness in
dirt and rags which she looked for in vain in the fine
mansions and spacious avenues of the Champs-Elys£es. But
the attraction which these sights possessed was deeper
rooted than that. It had its origin in a vivid feeling for the
tragic contrasts in man's lot, and later on might have turned
her into a painter, with so profound a grip of reality as to
invest the everyday life aroimd with tne impressiveness of
history. There are passages in her Journal, describing the
drama of the street, that are like flashes of inspiration. She
reads subtle meanings in the looks, the attitucles, the move-
ments of passers-by. and suggestions of human tragedies in
many a race caugnt sight of in the crowd. Mothers with
children in arms, botdevardiers smoking in a caft, the sight
of a pretty girl leaning on a counter selling funeral wreaths
with a smile on her lips — these things strike her as the very
stuff to be turned to tne artist's use, and as fit for the brush
as when
" Some ereat painter dips
His pencil iu the gloom of earthquake and eclipse."
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xviii MARIE BASEKIRTSEFF.
Indeed, it was a keen delight to Marie Bashkirtseff to
escape from her elegant world and go prowling through the
Quartier Latin, looking for rare old editions, for plaster casts,
for skulls. The music shops, the bookstalls along the Seine,
the busy throng of students and workpeople, appealed to her
artistic sense, and the contradictory creature even took to
chiding her luck, in that she had been born to wealth and
luxury. - This change of mood was partly due to her rivalry
with one of her fellow-students, the most gifted of them — a
young Swiss lady called Breslau, who, living plainly and
laboriously in true art-student fashion, appeared to her rival
more fortunate, in being wholly free from worldly distrac-
tions. This promising artist, who had begun some years earlier
than Marie, was a thorn in her side, for she continually tested
herself by the attainments of the former, making carefid calcu-
lations as to whether, at such and such a date, her work had
been equal or superior, or the reverse, of what she was capable
of producing herself. Indeed, one of the worst traits of Mile.
Bashkirtseff 's character is her abiding jealousy, nay envy —
though she repudiates the word — of her fellow-student, whose
success robbea her of sleep, whose failure gave her a thrill of
relief. She seems to have been incapable of that glow of
enthusiasm which in youth at least cements the comradeship
of followers of the same art. But in extenuation we may say
with Blake —
" The poison of the honey bee
Is the artist's jealousy."
In speaking of Marie Bashkirtseff as a born impressionist,
I referred to her instinct and temperament even more than to
her bias as an artist. For she belongs to the naturalist
rather than the impressionist school. To reproduce the real
as faithfully as may be, to catch hold of the life of to-day,
the common life of the streets, vagabonds, gamins, working
people, strollers, convicts, and what not — this is her great
object. She asks to be face to face with actual facts, instead
of dealing with figments of the fancy ; to present the " living
life" through the medium of colour as she so triumphantly
managed to convey it through that of words. What she aims
at above all therefore is expression — truth of expression. Not
beauty, not invention, not —
" The light that never was on sea or land."
That light is precisely what she scorns. No, no, rive her
the light as it slants across a dingy wall in a narrow rarisian
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INTRODUCTION, xix
back street, on which a boy has scrawled a gallows ; or the
rain dully boating on a tattered umbrella. That is nature,
the nature we see most commonly about us, and which we
can render with the greatest accuracy of presentment.
For she is an enthusiastic disciple of Zola, the master of a
school which has set the ugly in the place of the beautiful, as
Milton's Satan called on evil to be his good. In reading some
of the novels, and looking at some of the pictures produced by
the latter-day followers of this gospel of the gutter, one would
say that nature was one universal chamber of horrors. There
is enough and to spare, no doubt, but it would be well to re-
member sometimes that the sun is still shining in the sky,
and man not absolutely a brute. Even in our own day, with
our own eyes we have seen the angel in the man ; the names
of Mazzini, of Gordon, of Damien, nave made us sad and glad,
and it is as well to remember that they are as much part and
parcel of human nature as the drunkard of "L' Assommoir " and
the scoundrel of " L'Immortel." Yet in justice it must be said
that the reading of the former novel called out Marie's
sympathies for the sufferings of the people in a way that
nothing else had ever done, the description of their misery
making her positively ill, and leaving a permanent mark
behind. If she seemed by preference to select ugly subjects
for presentation, it must not be forgotten that she went in for
rendering what she saw, and that she lived in the Paris of
the latter part of the nineteenth century. Had she remained
in her native Ukraine it might have been different with
her, for she might have found subjects to her hand as
full of character as they were of beauty and originality. Indeed,
she was intensely sensitive to the beauty of life, as her jubilant
admiration of Spain proves very conclusively. A word must be
said here about her journey to that country, which was the
turning point of her career as an artist. She was a pupil
when she went -there, a painter on her return. Formerly sne
had only seen the drawing and the subject. Now she seemed
suddenly to have acquired a new sense, and atmosphere and
colour stood revealed. Velasquez took her by storm. His
unrivalled technique, his brush-power, the monumental real-
ism of his work, made her raise " herself on tip-toe to catch
the secret of his divine truthfulness." Fashion may have
had something to do with this unbounded enthusiasm. For
though original in her judgments, Marie Bashkirtseff is the
most impressionable of human beings, and the name of
Velasquez was the rallying cry of the naturalists.
Not only Velasquez, however, the entire country stirred her
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xx MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
artistic faculties as nothing else had ever done before. The
fantastic old churches and palaces born of the marriage of
Moorish and Gothic art, the fairy-like gardens full of the
murmur of fountains falling between beds of violets ; the grace
of the black-eyed Spanish women and supple-limbed gipsies
in the tortuous streets, turning into pictures with every chance
grouping and accident of light and shade — here, indeed, the
common stuff of life was food for the painter's canvas. Pen
and pencil became equally inspired, and her descriptions of
Spanish life and scenery, of the bull-lights and cigarette
makers and convicts, are among the most powerful and pic-
turesque pieces of writing in the Journal. There is an aptness
in her phrase, a crisp clearness of outline and vigour of pre-
sentment making these passages worthy of a master of style.
The tire of inspiration caught from the genius of Velasquez
and Ribera, and the architectural marvels of Toledo and
Granada, burned with a steady flame during the short span of
life still left to this marvellous girl.
In August, ]882, she painted Tlie Umbrella, remarkable
for the striking truth and precision in the delineation of
character, the Holbeinlike accuracy of the drawing, the
vigour of the pose. It is the picture of a girl of twelve wrap-
ping her old shawl round her as she stands impassive, with
wind-blown hair facing the rain under a bent umbrella of
Gamp-like dimensions. The expression of the stolid face full
of that pathos of mute suffering which occasionally startles one
in the looks of animals is a piece of admirable realism. The
same vigour and solidity of handling are evinced in Jean
et Jacques, exhibited in the Salon of 1883. Two boys, the
elder brother holding the reluctant little one by the hand,
trudge to school with unwilling steps. Jean, sucking a
leaf between his lips as a make-belief cigarette, his cap
rakishly on the back of his head, and umbrella tucked under
his right arm, has the business-like air of those children of the
poor who are left in charge of babies from the time they could
toddle. A more ambitious effort in the same line, and a really
fine picture, Le Meeting, was begun in April, 1883. The title
was a stroke of wit, when applied to half-a-dozen lads discuss-
ing the use to which a piece of string is to be applied with
the excitement of politicians over a question of state. We
know them, these gamins de Paris, these young habitues of
the gutter, flocking together like hungry sparrows, picking up
their food anyhow, yet managing to grow in a devil-may-care
sort of way. Little love, less learning, falls to their share, yet
the great city is their schoolmaster, and for aught we know
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INTRODUCTION. xxi
they may hear "sermons in stones," though not sermons of
the orthodox, but rather of the Louise Michel kind. But they
are not altogether a bad sort. True, that big, thin legged
fellow with the fox-like look, laying down the law to the
audience, may grow up to brew mischief in the State, but at
present the lucky find of a stray nest or length of stick yields
trim a throb of satisfaction. A set of ugly, unwashed, badly-
clothed ragamuffins. You or I passing them in the street
might have looked another way to avoid seeing their dirty
rags. Yet how interesting, how full of life and character they
are, just a group snatched, out of the busy throng, and still
warm and breathing, translated into the language of art.
Though grey and sombre in colour this picture is harmonious,
nay, even brilliant in tone. It has a real atmosphere, and the
figures stand out vigorously from the gloomy background of
the street, partly blocked up by a wooden paling. The natural-
ness of the composition, the admirable truth of the general
effect, the vigour of the execution, the sense it gives us of
latent force instinctively assimilating and reproducing the
pictorial elements of common life, combine to make Le
Meeting a memorable performance for a girl of twenty-two
who had only started on her artistic career five years pre-
viously.
Expression being her forte, as might be expected por-
traiture is one of Marie BashkirtseiFs strong points. She
has done nothing more successful and admirable than the
pastel of her cousin Dina, to be seen in the Luxembourg,
as well as Le Meeting. Her portraits of Mme. P. K,
her sister-in-law, of Bojidar Karageorgevitch the Servian
Prince, and of Mile, de Canrobert, bear the unmistakable
stamp of being characteristic likenesses. The latter is par-
ticularly noticeable for the ease and freedom in the lines of
the figure ; though rough in workmanship there is style in
the pose, and in the treatment there seems a suggestion of
Mr. Whistler's manner.
Landscapes with figures also attracted the young artist ;
and the word-painting of some of her projected works in
that line — such as the description of the funeral of a peasant
girl in spring, whose coffin is carried to its last resting
place through a blossoming apple orchard — is as lovely a
piece of writing as we know. Sne imagines the delicate har-
monies of pale pinks, the infantine green of the new leaves
and untrodden grass, the delicious blue of the rain-washed
April sky, hues that have the soft and soothing effect of a
flute heard across the waters of a lake ; and amid all that
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xxii MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
glory of young leaf and blossom the bier of the dead girl,
and some rougn old country people by the wayside, as gnarled
and rugged as the bronzed trunks of the apple-trees.
The two subjects of that kind which she actually did
paint are fiill of charm and suggestiveness. The one is an
avenue in autumn, breathing of desolation and decay. There
is something almost human in the miserable look of the
trees stripped of their sumptuous clothing, and shivering in
their bones, so to speak. A dull, deadly mist steals up the
path like a shroud which invisible hands are bringing to
cover the earth. The ghostly air of abandonment fully gives
the sentiment of this phase of nature ; and, indeed, landscape
painters agree that autumn, with its mists and rich discoloura-
tions, is the most pictorial of all the seasons. The other, called
Spring, painted at Sevres in April, 1884, was the first
of her pictures which found its way to Russia ; and that, too,
in a manner most flattering to the artist, for it was bought,
early in the year 1888, by the cousin of the Czar, the Grand
Duke Constantine Constantinowitch, not only a distin-
guished connoisseur, but himself something of a painter and
poet. It is now in his gallery at the Marble Palace, which
contains several works of the highest merit. In this picture
Marie Bashkirtseff attempted to express the inmost spirit
of spring by line and colour — the rush of sap in the
vegetation, the exquisite modulations of green, the little
yellow flowers in the grass, the sheen of white and pink
blossoms; in short, the mysterious fermentation of revival
culminating in the person of a rustic girl half asleep under
an apple-tree. She is meant to express that "drowsy
numbness" of extreme physical enjoyment which Keats so
magically describes in the " Ode to a Nightingale." A frame
of mind in which, as the downright pamter says, she would
easily have succumbed to the first young boor who would
see her sitting there.
But we do not realise Marie BashkirtseflPs astonishing
energy, power of work, and devotion to her art, till we
have seen the quantity of sketches, designs, and studies
from life, which she managed to produce between the ages
of seventeen and twenty-four. These have been carefully
preserved by the pious love of Mme. Bashkirtseff in the
house where her aaughter spent the two or three last years
of her life in a kind of artistic delirium, laying in a picture,
modelling in wet clay, improvising wondrous times, studying
Homer, Livy, and Dante, stretching the hours into days
by the number of sensations she managed to cram them witn.
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INTRODUCTION. xxiii
Well might Marie say that there was nothing wanting to
her artist's happiness in the way she was lodged. She had a
whole storey entirely appropriated to herself. The spaciona
atelier has a splendid light, and a gallery running round it,
the whole being crowded from floor to ceiling with her
work. There is the first portrait she painted — a woman in
a blue dress — of which tne most noticeable feature is the
treatment of the hands and fair silky hair. The Study of
a FisJterman of Nice, browned by the sun, with that rich flesh
colour, to which the blue sea acts as a foil, is a powerful bit
of character. The Corrtiesse de TouUmse Reading shows
a more delicate feeling for beauty than is usual with her;
the action of the long, white fingers passing through the
waves of golden hair being masterly in treatment. So is the
sketch of a baby at the oreast. There is something almost
fiercely realistic about it ; only a breast and the infant's face ;
but the blue-veined temples, the blue-pink tones of the
cheeks and unfinished little nose, the energy of the sucking lips,
are caught to the life. The head of the convict she painted at
Granada shows the influence of the Spanish school. It is
a face full of expression, the sinister physiognomy looking
out from the canvas with a strange vividness. The same
influence is shown in the masterly study of a pair of hands.
They reveal a character, and suggest a story — a tragedy, if
you wilL I know not what of ages of pain and endurance
is conveyed by those long, bony, corded hands, but they are
not easily forgotten. More of a finished work is the picture
of a child of nine walking through an avenue with a bottle
in one hand and a tin pail in the other. The soft blue
of the gown harmonises very happily with the neutral tints
of the ground and the trunks of the trees. The naive expression
of the child, and the action of the sturdy little feet are ad-
mirably true to nature. The general effect is full of poetry
of the Wordsworth kind
But it is impossible here to give a detailed account of
the many things of interest contained in this studio. The
general impression left on the mind is that Marie Bashkirtseff
excels in tne vitality of her work. Everything she touches
catches life from her fingers. Insignificant in subject, ugly,
uninviting it may be, but it lives, and makes you feel
that it does. Herein lies her great gift, and one she so
highly prized ! But she has other qualities as a painter.
She can paint atmosphere so that ner figures are well
detached from the background, and there is no confusion of
objects ; she is noticeable for her effects of delicate gradations
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xxiv MABIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
of light, and her colour has a subdued sweetness of tone, rather
sober for so ardent a nature.
The fine library leading out of the atelier shows what a
student and lover of books Marie Bashkirtseff must have been.
Valuable editions of the Greek and Roman classics stand in
orderly rows along the shelves. The literatures of Italy,
France, Germany, England, and Russia, are represented by all
their chief authors. A striking photograph of Zola, for whom
this artist entertained so pronounced an admiration, hangs
on the wall opposite the writing table. But these rooms
contained what seemed to bring Marie Bashkirtseff in the
flesh more vividly before me than the books and the furni-
ture, the statues and pictures, and all the rest of it. Only a
cupboard full of little shoes — house-shoes, dress-shoes, ball-
shoes — but what a world of pathos was there not in those bits
of leather or satin which had shod those small Cinderella-like
feet, of which the young girl was almost as vain as of her
beautiful hands. For Marie was much occupied with her
appearance, fond of dress, and had more than the ordinary
share of a woman's love of attracting admiration. She had
a finely developed figure of middle height, hair of a golden
red, the brilliant complexion that usually accompanies a
tendency to consumption, and a face which, without being
regularly handsome, captivated you by the fire and energy of
its expression. Photographs could never do her justice, it
seems, as the want of colour deprived her of that unrivalled
freshness and fairness which constituted her chief beauty.
But her real spell lay in the intense vitality which shone out
of her deep grey eyes, as it glowed through all her writing
and paintmg. Even the illness which was to carry her
off added fuel to the flame, and she might well say — " I
am like a candle cut in four and burning at all ends."
For consumption, whose first symptoms had already been
discovered by the doctor of some German watering-place
when she was only sixteen years old, was unfortunately
suffered to spread and undermine her constitution. She
would not, or could not, believe in the reality of the skeleton
in her cupboard, though a thousand fictitious ones were
always driving her distracted. The dark shadow so early
cast across her path threw the high lights of life into
sharper relief, and no premonitory warning sufficed to make
her realise the imperative need of taking care of herself. If
she did so at all, it was only by fits and starts under the stress
of an attack of laryngitis or pleurisy. She was the despair
of her physicians. Potain, the great chest doctor, who pro-
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INTRODUCTION. xxv
nounced her the most extraordinary and undisciplined of all
Eatients, refused at one time to have anything more to do with
er, for she coquetted with Death as much as with one of her
lovers, dallying and luring him on at whiles, but instinctively
drawing back when his advances became too marked. Some-
times, nowever, when she realises his frosty breath so close
upon her, she shudders instinctively, crying out in anguish
— "To die; great God to die! Without leaving anything
behind me! To die, like a dog, like a hundrea thousana
women whose names are scarcely engraved upon their
tombstones ! " But this was not all The trouble that
fretted her above all other trials was a growing deafness,
which interposed a barrier between her and trie outside
world. This infirmity seems, in some cases, to accompany
the pulmonary complaint, and by robbing human intercourse
of its zest, destroyed her hopes of a brilliant social career.
On that account it was more norrible to her than the idea ot
death itself — partly because the misery of it was a dull,
dreary, monotonous one : whereas to die young was still to
find " an intoxication in death itself."
But before the end came her life burned with a clearer,
more concentrated flame than ever before. She herself is
taken by surprise at the increasing acuteness of her sensations.
Time seemed too limited to reproduce the beauty of the
universe. In fact, painting was but one of the forms through
which her prodigious sensitiveness found expression. She
wished to be a sculptor too, so as to express the beauty of
the human form in its completest manifestation. Music was
another vent for her intense personality. When she sat down
to the piano in the moonlight of May to play Beethoven or
Chopin, all other pleasures became tame by comparison.
Then would she glide into strange new harmonies, such as
may sound through an opium-eater's dream. " No one," she
exclaims, " no one it seems to me, loves everything as much
as I do." This passage in the Journal has the same ring of
exaltation as Shelley's " Ode to Delight," when he sings his
love for
" The fresh earth in new leaves drest,
And the starry night ;
Autumn evening, and the morn,
When the golden mists are born."
The year 1884 now dawned — the year which brought Mile.
Bashkirtseff a striking artistic success ; the closest friendship
with Bastien-Lepage, the painter she admired above all others
of her generation ; and the end of all things. Le Meeting,
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xxvi MARIE BA8HKIRT8EFF.
the picture already spoken of, was exhibited in the Salon
of '84, and attracted public attention. It had press notices
in the leading papers, and was reproduced in many of the
illustrated ones of France, Germany, and Russia. Dealers
and picture-buyers began to look up the rising artist ; society
papers described her personal appearance, speaking of her
as one of the most beautiful girls of Russia. Wnen she
went out she came in contact with the intellectual £lite
of France, and was noticed as a person of distinction, and
a young, charming, elegant woman, all in one. Ah, at
last, her dreams were translated into reality! She not
only felt herself a force, she was recognised as such. The
fact gave a new impetus to her whole nature ; the greatest
triumph of all being Bastien-Lepage's assurance tnat no
woman had ever achieved so much at so early an age. .
Marie's admiration for the painter of Pas Meche,
Jeamw d'Arc, Le Soir au Village, has a suspicious flavour
of love about it. At any rate it is the strongest, sweetest,
most impassioned feeling of her existence, lending a ten-
der halo to its last phase. Is there anywhere in fiction,
indeed, a chapter more pathetic, more thrilling than the
intimacy of these two impressionist painters as we see it growing
and deepening in the closing scenes of the Journal ? At first
the presence of " the great, the only, the unique Bastien "
used to make Marie so nervous that she grew awkward and
tongue-tied when they met. She even goes the length of
Erotesting that there is a natural antagonism between them,
ecause he acts as a check upon her and she taxes herself with
exaggeration for this excessive enthusiasm only due to a
master-genius like Wagner. But these doubts and hesitations
Eassed away on Bastien-Lepage's return from Algiers, whither
e had gone for health's sake. On his return to Paris in
the summer of the year '84, Marie and Bastien met nearly
every day, either in the latter's sick room or else in the
Bois de Boulogne.
These were days full of solemn sweetness, when the J/oi-
Spectateur sometimes left off looking through the microscope,
and Bastien, whose very name had some time haunted her
like the refrain of a song, was always so delighted to see
her, so disappointed when she stayed away. The two families
met almost daily ; there was a constant interchange of deli-
cate attentions. The goat which supplied Marie Bashkirtseff
with milk provided Lepage likewise; pride, shyness, reserve
vanished, and they became simple and trustful like two
children clinging to each other wnen left alone in the dark.
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INTRODUCTION. Xxvii
She tells of foolish little details, enough to make one weep,
indeed, she almost dreads Bastien's recovery, which will put a
stop to this intimacy.
Alas! there was no fear of that, as became all too soon
apparent to her. The year was on the wane and they were
on the wane with it. Day by day the Journal initiates us
into the mystery of the closing act of life till we seem to
witness the change, the gradual relaxation of all earthly
bonds and affections. On coming away from the bedside
of Bastien, who was sinking fast, Marie often felt quite
detached from the earth already. The thirst, " the fever called
living " seemed to be stilled, a painless indifference, the most
unusual sensation with her, left Marie resigned to everything.
She already felt herself a shadow drifting with Bastien into the
shadow land. Indeed, she was very 01 herself — so ill, that
with all her determination she found herself unable to paint.
She had begun a picture of La Rue, the subject being a seat
on the Boulevard des Batignolles, with its customary occu-
pants. Everything was reaoy to her hand for beginning this
work. A photograph of the corner of the street had been
taken, she nad made a preliminary sketch, the canvas was
placed on the easel ; in short, as she pathetically says, " All is
ready. It is only I who am missing.
It was on the 12th of October that, growing from bad to
worse, Marie was kept in-doors. On the 16th, exhausted with
fever, she was only able to move from the easy-chair to the
sofa. Bastien, too weak to walk, was carried to her room on
the shoulders of his devoted brother flmile. Propped up on
cushions the two dying artists lay near each other, finding a
supreme consolation m being together to the last. Marie
Bashkirtseff, not forgetful of appearances even then, wore a
tea-ffown of ivory plush with a cloud of soft lace of every
shade of white. The artist's grey eyes, " eyes which had
beheld Joan of Arc," as she says, dilated with pleasure as he
looked at her. She was still beautiful, and his passion for
art, possibly his passion for the woman, awoke the longing to
fix her image before she had faded away. As he looked his
last at the ruddy gold of the hair done up in a simple knot,
still so bright above the ardent face with its pale velvety
complexion, the deep-set eyes glowing with a sombre light,
the light of a soul on fire — no wonder the painter should
exclaim impulsively : l Oh, if I could only paint ! ' "
That is all. Tlie picture of the year is finished ! The
Journal breaks off abruptly on the 20th of October, 1884,
and eleven days afterwards, on the 31st of the month, shortly
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xxviii MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
before completing her twenty-fourth year, Marie Bashkirtseft
had ceaseci to be, and was followed shortly afterwards by
Bastien-Lepage, so that in their death they were not divided.
She lies buried in the cemetery at Passy, where a monument
has been erected to her memory, with some verses by M.
Theuriet engraved over its portaL
Could Marie Bashkirtsen have known what a sensation she
has produced since her untimely end, even her thirst for
renown might have been appeased. Could she have known
that her cnief picture was bought by the State within a
year of her deatn, and now hangs in the Luxembourg along
with the masterpieces of modern French art ; could she have
known that her Journal is an enthusiasm to the few, a
curiosity to the many, and is taking rank among the auto-
biographies the world will not willingly let die ; could she
have known of the essay which the spell of her personality
has drawn from the grand old humanitarian leader of Eng-
land — could she have known all this, it might have com-
pensated her for much in her life, and would have spared her
that haunting dread of perishing with nothing to show that
she had been — " rien, rien, rien ! "
Mathilde Blind.
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AX AUTOGRAPH LETTER OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
a+ m
^e^c^^^^c.
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AUTHOR'S PREFACE.
TVhy tell lies and play a part ? Yes, it is clear that I
have the wish, if not the hope, of remaining on this earth
by whatever means in my power. If I do not die young,
I hope to survive as a great artist ; but if I do, I will have
my Journal published, which cannot fail to be interesting.
But as I talk of publicity, this idea of being read has per-
haps spoilt, nay, destroyed, the sole merit of such a book ?
Well, no ! To begin with, I wrote for a long time without
a thought of being read, and in the next place it is pre-
cisely because I nope to be read that I am absolutely
sincere. If this book be not the exact, the absolute, the
strict truth, it has no right to exist.} I not only say all
the time what I think, out I never contemplated hiding
for an instant what might make me appear ridiculous,
or prove to my disadvantage ; for the rest I think myself
too admirable for censureji Rest assured, therefore, kind
reader, that I reveal myself completely, entirely. /,
personally, may, perhaps, possess but a feeble interest for
you; but do not think that it is I: think, here is a
niunan being who tells you all its impressions from
childhood. It cannot help being interesting as a document
of human nature. Ask M. Zola even M. de Goncourt, or
Maupassant My diary begins at twelve years of age, and
begins to have some meaning from the age of fifteen or sixteen.
Therefore a hiatus remains to be filled up, and I will write a
kind of preface which will enable the reader to follow this
human and literary document.
There — suppose me famous. We begin : —
I was born on the 11th November, 1860. It is fearful
even to have to write it; but at any rate, it comforts me
to remember that when you read this I shall no longer
be of anv age.
My father was the son of General Paul Gregorievitch
BashkirtsefT, who belonged to the gentry, and was a brave,
obstinate, hard, and even cruel, man. My grandfather was
raised to the rank of general after the Crimean war, t
believe. He married a young girl, the adopted daughter
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xxx MARIE BASHKIRT8EFF.
of a great nobleman ; she died at the age of eight-and-
twenty, leaving five children — my father and four sisters.
My mother got married at one-and-twenty, having
previously refused many excellent offers. Mamma's maiden
name was Babanine, and by her we belong to the old
provincial nobility ; her father always made a boast of his
Tartar origin, which dated from the first invasion — Baba
Nina are Tartar words — but for my part, I laugh at it. . . .
Grandpapa was the contemporary of Lermontotf', Poushkine,
&c. He had been a Byronian, a poet, soldier, scholar ; he
had been to the Caucasus. Very early in life he married
a Miss Julia Cornelius, a very gentle and pretty girl of
fifteen. They had nine children, if you please, no more !
After two years of marriage mamma returned to her
parents with two children. I was always with my grand-
mother, who idolised me. Aunt followed her example when
my mother did not take her with her ; she was younger than
mamma, but not pretty, and sacrificed herself and was sacri-
ficed for everyboay.
In the month of May, 1870, we started on our travels.
My mother's cherished dream was at last carried out. We
spent a month in Vienna, enchanted by its novelties, its fine
shops, and theatres. We reached Baden-Baden in June, at
the height of the season, astir with Paris and all its luxury.
Our party consisted of grandpapa, mamma, Aunt Romanoff,
my first cousin Dina, Paul, and myself. We were also
accompanied by Lucien Walitzky, our angelic and incom-
parable doctor. He was a Pole, but without exaggerated
patriotism, with the kindest heart, the most caressing man-
ners, and given to caricaturing. He was doctor of the dis-
trict at Achtirka ; had studiea at the University with my
mother s brother ; and always made one of the family. When
we left Russia we wanted a physician for grandpapa, and
carried off Walitzky. At Baaen-Baden I began to get an
insight into the fashionable world, and was tortured by
vanity. . . .
But I have not said enough of Russia, nor mvself, which
most concerns us. According to the practice of our gentry
I had two governesses, one Russian and the other French.
The Russian lady, whom I well remember, was a Madame
Melnikoft', a woman of the world, well educated, and romantic,
who, being separated from her husband, had elected to turn
teacher after the perusal of numerous novels. She became
the friend of the family, and was treated like one of us.
Every man paid court to her, and she ran away one fine
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AUTHOR'S PREFACE. xxxi
morning after I know not what romantic episode. We are
very romantic in Russia. She might easily have said good-
bye, and left in the usual way ; but the Slav character
inoculated with French civilisation and romantic literature
is a curious product. This governess, acting up to her part
of unhappy wife, naturally adored the little girl entrusted to
her care ; and I, already entering into the spirit of the thing,
returned her adoration. Indeed, the whole family affected to
think that her disappearance must make me ill ; everybody
looked at me pityingly that day, and I believe that my
grandmother had some special soup prepared for mo
which is usually given to invalids. I felt myself growing
quite pale before such a show of sympathy. I was, in truth,
rather frail, delicate, and not pretty — a met which did not
Srevent everybody from considering me as a being inevitably
estined by fate to become one day everything that is
beautiful, brilliant, and magnificent. My mother went to a
Jewish fortune-teller.
" You have two children," said he ; " the son will be
like the rest of the world, but your daughter will be a
star." ....
One evening at the theatre a gentleman said to me,
laughing : —
" Show me your hands, young lady .... Oh ! To judge
from her gloves there's no doubt she'll be a terrible flirt."
It made me quite proud. * Since I can remember, since
the age of three (I had a wet-nurse till I was three-and-a-
half), I had aspired to future greatness. All my dolls were
kings and queens ; and my thoughts, and all that was talked
of in our family, seemed continually to have some reference
to the triumphs which must inevitably come to me.
At five I dressed myself in my mother's laces, with
flowers in my hair, in order to dance in the drawing-room.
I was the famous ballet-dancer Pepita, and all the family
came and looked at me. Paul was hardly noticed, and Dina
bore me no grudge, though the daughter of the favourite
George. One story more. When Dina was born, grand-
mamma, without so much as saying by your leave, took her
from her mother, and kept her ever afterwards. This hap-
pened before my birth.
Mme. Melnikoff was succeeded by Mile. Sophie Dolgi-
koflf, a young lady of sixteen. Holy Russia! After her
came another French lady, rSlme. Brenne, with pale blue
eyes and hair dressed in the style of the Restoration — a sad
creature with her fifty years and her consumptive habit. I
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xnrii MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
liked her very much. She taught me drawing, and I drew a
little church in outline with her. In fact, I sketched a great
deal ; while the old ones played at cards I sat by and drew
on the card-table.
Mme. Brenne died in 1868 in the Crimea. The little
Russian governess, treated like one of us, was on the eve of
getting married to a young man whom the doctor had intro-
duced, and who was known as having been jilted repeatedly.
On this occasion everything seemed to go on swimmingly,
when, on going into Mile. Sophie's room one evening, I
found her dissolved in tears with her nose buried in the
cushions.
" Everyone's come," I cried. " What on earth's the
matter ? "
At last, after copious tears and sobs, the poor child con-
fessed that she never could — no, never ! . . . . and fresh tears.
" But why ? "
" Because, because I can't get used to his face."
The young man heard all this from the drawing-room.
An hour afterwards he packed his trunk, weeping bitterly, and
departed. It was the seventeenth time he had been jilted.
How well I remember the girl's words — " I can't get used to
his face ! " It came from the bottom of her heart, and I
understood perfectly what a horrible thing it would be to
marry a man whose face one couldn't get used t£j
All this carries us back to Baden-Baden in 1870. War
having been declared, we hurried oft* to Geneva ; I, full of
discontent and determined to have my turn. Every day,
before going to bed, I added the following words in a low
voice to my prayer :
" Grant, O Lord, that I may never have the small-pox,
that I may be pretty, and have a fine voice ; that I may be
happy in my married life, and that mamma may live
long!"
In Geneva we stayed at the Crown Hotel, near the Lake.
I had a drawing-master, who brought me sketches to copy —
little ch&lets whose windows were drawn like trunks of trees,
not a bit like the real windows of real chalets. So I would
have none of them, not seeing how a window could look
thus. Whereupon the good old man bade me simply copy
the view from my winaow. Just then we left the Crown
Hotel and went to board with a family from whose house
one had a view of Mont Blanc. So I scrupulously copied
what I saw of Geneva and the lake, and the thing stopped
there, I can't remember why. In Baden we had had time
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AUTHOR'S PREFACE. xxxiii
to have our portraits taken after some photographs, and
they appeared ugly to ine by dint of being smooth and
prettified. . . .
When I am dead people will read my life, which to me
seems very remarkable. Were it not so it would be the
climax of misery. But I hate prefaces and editors' notes,
and have missed reading many excellent Looks on this
account. That's why I've wished to write my own preface.
It could have been dispensed with had the whole diary
been published ; but I think it best to begin with my
thirteenth year, the preceding part being too long. The
reader, however, will find sufficient data to go upon in the
course of this narrative, for I frequently make references
to the past, now for one reason, now for another. (Suppose
I were to die now quite suddenly, seized by some illness;
perhaps I should not know of my danger ; they would
conceal it from me ; and, after my death my drawers would
be ransacked, and my family would discover mv Journal,
and, having read, would destroy it. Soon afterwards nothing
would remain of me — nothing .... nothing .... nothing !
.... It is this which has always terrified me. To live,
to have so much ambition, to suffer, weep, struggle — and
then oblivion ! . . . . oblivion .... as if I had never be en.}
Should I not live long enough to become famous, this
Journal will be of interest to naturalists ; for the life of a
Ionian must always be curious, told thus day by day,
without any attempt at posing ; as if no one in the world
would ever read it, yet written with the intention of being
read ; for I feel quite sure the reader will find me sym-
pathetic And I tell all, ves, all ... . Else what
were the use of it ? In fact, it will be sufficiently apparent
that I tell everything
Paris, 1st May, 1884.
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MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF, 1876.
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THE JOURNAL
OF
MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
CHAPTER I.
JANUARY (AT TWELVE YEARS OF AGE).— NICE— PROMENADE
DES ANGLAIS— VILLA ACQUA VIVA, 1873.
Aunt Sophie is playing some melodies of the Ukraine on
the piano, and that reminds me of our country house. I am
carried back thither and all my memories recall poor grand-
mamma. Tears rise to my eyes ; they fill them and begin to
flow ; they are flowing alreaay. . . . Poor grandmamma ! It
makes me unhappy that you are no longer here ! How you
loved me and 1 you ! But I was too little to love you as
much as you deserved ! The remembrance of grandmamma
is venerable, sacred, and beloved, but it is no longer living.
God grant I may be happy, and I shall be grateful. What
am I saying ? Am I not here in order to be happy ? O
God, let me be happy !
Aunt Sophie is still playing ; the notes reach me from
time to time and penetrate my souL I have no lessons to
learn for to-morrow, it is the fete day of Sophie. God,
rive me the Duke of H ! ... I'll love nim and make
him happy ; I'll be happy too, and kind to the poor. It is
sinful to believe one can purchase the grace of God by good
works, but I can't express myself properly.
I'm in love with the Duke of H , and can't tell him so ;
even if I did he would pay no heed. While he was here I
had an object in going out and dressing myself, but now ! . . .
I went on the terrace m the hope of seeing him, at least for an
instant, in the distance. God, ease my pain, I can't pray
any more, but listen to my prayer ! Thy grace is so infinite, thy
mercy so great, thou hast done so mucn for me ! It grieves
me so not to see him on the Promenade. He looked so
distinguished among the vulgar crowd of Nice.
o 2
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2 MARIE BA8BK1UTSEFF.
R Mme. Howard invited us yesterday to spend Sunday with
her children. We were just going when Mme. Howard
told us she had seen mamma and got her leave to keep us
till evening. We stayed, and after dinner went into the
salon, which was dark, and the young ladies begged me to
sing, and went on their knees as well as the cnildren ; we
laughed a great deal I sang " Santa Lucia," " The sun has
risen," and a few rmdades. They were so enchanted that they
fell to kissing me most awfully — that's the word. Could I
produce the same impression on the public I would certainly
go on the stage this very day.
It moves one so much to be admired for something more
than one's dress ! I am really quite delighted with the
children's exclamations of admiration What would it
be if I were admired by others ? . . . .
I was made for emotions, for success ; the best I can do,
therefore, is to turn singer. If God would only have the
goodness to preserve, strengthen, and increase my voice, I
could achieve the success I long for. I could have the satis-
faction of being known, admired, famousf and in that way I
could secure him I love. If I remain as lam I have little hope
that he will ever love me, for he knows nothing of my existence
even. But when he sees me famous, successful ! . . . . Men
are ambitious ! . . . . Then, too, I can be received in society, for
I shall not be a celebrity sprung from God knows where ! I am
of noble extraction and there's no need for my making a
living ; this will ensure greater success and enable me to rise
with more facility. Life will be perfect thus. I dream of
nothing but fame, of being known all the world over.
^ancy appearing on the boards, of seeing thousands of
spectators waiting with beating hearts for the moment you
will begin to sing ! To know as you look at them that they'll
be at your feet at a note from your voice ! To survey them
haughtily! (I am fit for most things). This is my dream;
this, this is life, happiness, everything. And then in the
midst of it all, the Duke of H will come, like the rest of my
adorers, but he won't be received like the others. Dear, you
will be dazzled by my splendour, you will love me ; you will
see me famous, and you certainly deserve such a woman as I
hope to become. I am not plain, nay, I am even pretty, yes,
certainly pretty. I am extremely well-made, like a statue.
I have good nair on the whole, and my manners have a
coquetry of their own. I know how to behave to men.
I am a good girl, and shall never allow any man but my
husband to kiss me, and not all little girls from twelve to
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NICE, PARIS, VIENNA, 1873. 3
fourteen can boast as I can of never having kissed or been
kissed by any man. And when he sees a young lady who has
reached the highest pinnacle of fame a woman can attain, who
is pure and virtuous, and has loved him faithfully from her
childhood, he will be so surprised that he will wish to have
me at any price, and marry me from sheer pride. But what
am I saying? Why shouldn't I suppose him capable of
loving me ? Oh yes, with God's help ! Has God not helped
me to find out a way of securing him I love ? . . . . I
return thanks, O GodJJ
Fi*iday, March 14th. — This morning I heard a noise of
wheels in the Rue de France ; I looked out, and saw the Duke
of H driving four-in-hand towards the Promenade. If he
is here he will take part in the pigeon-shooting in April ; I
shall certainly go.
To-day I've again seen the Duke of H . Nobody
carries himself as well as he ; he has quite the air of a king in
his carriage. I saw G * several times at the Promenade
dressed in black. She is beautiful, owing rather to her dress
than to her personal appearance ; everything about her is
perfect, nothing is wanting ; all is rich, elegant, in the best
taste. She might really be mistaken for a great lady. It is
natural that all this should contribute to her beauty : — her
house with its drawing-rooms, its little recesses whose light is
subdued by draperies or green leaves ; she herself, with hair
and dress arranged to perfection, sitting, queen-like, in a
magnificent salon, furnished and decorated in a way to
enhance her charms. It is but natural she should please
him and that he should love her. Given her surroundings, I
should look still better. *T should be happy with my husband,
for I would not neglect myself; I should pay as much at-
tention to my person in order to please him as I did when I
wished to do so for the first time. For that matter, I can't
understand why a man and woman should love and try to
please each other continually before marriage, and then ne-
glect each other after it. Why imagine that it all passes
away with marriage and that afi that remains is a cold and
sedate friendship ? Why profane the idea of marriage by
picturing the wife in curl-papers and dressing-gown, with her
nose covered with cold cream, and trying to extract money
from her husband for her gowns ? . . . .
Why should a woman neglect her appearance before the
very man whom she ought to be most anxious to please ?^
* The mistress of tl\e dufce,
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4 MABTE BASHKIRTSEFF.
\ I can't see why one should treat a husband like a domestic
animal, whereas one wished to please the same man before
marriage. Why should a woman not always remain co-
quettish with her husband and treat him as she would a
stranger who is pleasing to her ? With this difference,
however, that she must suffer no liberties from a stranger.
Is it because husband and wife may love each other openly,
because it's no crime and because marriage is blessed by God. ?
Is it because what's not forbidden is worthless ? and because
people only like the things they must enjoy in secret ? Dear
me, this shouldn't be. I think very differently of these
^things.
I strain my voice to sing, and spoil it, and have sworn on
that account not to sing any more (an oath which I have
broken a hundred times) till I shall take lessons and I pray
that my voice may be purified, strengthened, and increased.
In order to prevent my singing I attach the dreadful penaltv
to it that I may lose my voice if I do so. It's awful ; but \
shall do everything to keep my promise.
' Friday, December 30. — Wore to-day an antediluvian
frock, my little skirt, and overcoat of black velvet. Dina's
tunic and sleeveless jacket does very well. I was much looked
at ; it must be because I know how to wear my clothes, and
have an elegant carriage (I had the air of a little old woman).
I should like to know why people look at me, whether it is
because I am odd or pretty. I would give much to whoever
told me the truth. Ifeel inclined to ask somebody (a young
man) if I am pretty. I always like to think what's pleasant,
and I like to think that on the whole it's because I'm pretty.
I may, perhaps, be mistaken ; but if it's an illusion I would
sooner keep it, as it is flattering. Why not ? is it not de-
sirable to make the best of things in this world ? Life is
so beautiful and so shortjj
I wonder what my brother Paul will do when he's grown
up, what profession he will choose, for he can't spend his
life in doing nothing, as so many people — dawdle away his
time and then mix with gamblers and cocottes, fie ! He can't
afford it for one thing. Every Sunday I intend writing
him a sensible letter, not stuffed with good advice, but like a
comrade. No doubt I shall know how to do it, and with
God's help I may gain some influence over him, for he must
be a man.
I have been so pre-occupied that I almost forgot the
. Puke's absence ! . . . (What a shame !) Such a gulf separates
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NIGB, PARIS, VIENNA, 1873. 5
us, Especially if we go to Russia this summer ! It is talked of
seriously. How can I believe I shall <*et him ? He thinks no
more of me than of last winter's snow ; I don't exist for him. If
we remain in Nice this winter I may still hope, but I fear
that when we leave for Russia all hopes are at an end ; every-
^thinff I thought possible fades away ; I suffer a slow dull pain
whicn is horrible, I lose what I hoped might be attainable. I
am passing through a sorrowful experience, a transformation
of my whole being. How strange it is ! A moment ago I was
thinking of the delights of pigeon-shooting, and now the
saddest thoughts are passing through my head.
Oh God ! these thoughts are crushing me ; I shall die of
misery at the thought that he will never love me ! I have no
hope, I was mad to wish something so impossible. I wanted
what was too beautiful. Ah no, I must not give way thus!
Why should I despair! Is there not an all-powerful deity
who watches over me ? How dare I have such thoughts !
Is He not everywhere, protecting us always ? Nothing is
impossible for Him, He is all-powerful ; for Him there is
neither time nor distance. I may be in Peru and the Duke
in Africa, and if He pleases He may reunite us. How
could I even for a minute entertain such desperate fancies,
how could I forget His divine goodness for a second ? Is it
because He does not grant me my wish at once that I dare
deny it ? No, no ; He is too merciful, He will not allow my
beautiful soul to be torn by cruel doubts !
This morning I pointed out a coalheaver to my governess
Mile. Colignon, saying " Do look how like this man is to the
Duke of H ." " What nonsense ! " she said, smiling. It
gave me immense pleasure to pronounce his name. But I
perceive that if one never speaks to any one of him one loves,
this love grows stronger, whereas if one speaks of him
continually (this is not my case) love diminishes ; it is like
bottled spirits of wine, if corked, the smell is strong, but if
you open it, it gradually evaporates. This is precisely like
my love, for I never hear it spoken of, I never speak of it, I
keep it entirely to myself.
M am very much depressed ; I have no positive idea what
my future is to be, I mean I know well enough what I
should like but not what I shall get. How gay I was last
winter ! Everything was full of promise and hope. I love a
shadow that 1 shall perhaps never obtain. I am wretched
about my gowns, I cried about it. I went to two dressmakers
with my aunt; but they are spoilt. I shall A\rite to Paris, I
can't endure the gowns here, it makesjme too wretched^
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6 MARIE BASRKIliTSEFF.
It is the tirst day of our Holy Week ; I was at church this
evening and said iny prayers.
I must confess there are many things in our religion which
I don't like, but it is not for me to think of reforming them.
I believe in God, in Jesus Christ, in the Virgin Mary, I pray
to God every evening, and I don't want to be taken up with
trifles which have nothing to say to true religion and true belief.
I believe in God, He is good to me and gives me more than
is needful. Oh, if He coula give me what I so ardently wish
for ! God will have pity on me ; although I could do without
that which I ask for, I should be so happy if the Duke
noticed me, and I would thank God.
I must write his name, for I neither mention it to anybody
nor even write it down. I cannot live any longer. I shall
burst, on my honour S It will at least relieve my pain to write it.
On our walk to-day I saw a young man in a hired carriage,
tall, thin, and dark ; I thought I recognised some one I knew.
A cry of surprise escaped me. Oh, caro H ! They asked
what was the matter, and I said Mile. Colignon had trodden
on iny toe.
He has nothing of his brother about him; all the same I
was glad to see him. Oh, if at least we could make his
acquaintance, for through him we might get to know the Duke !
I love this one like a brother, I love him because he is his
brother. At dinner, Walitzky said, all at once, " H ! " I
blushed, got confused, and went towards the cupboard. Mamma
blamed me for this cry, saying that my reputation, etc. etc. ;
that it was wrong. I think she must guess a little, for each
time some one mentions his name I blush or leave the room
suddenly. She doesn't scold me.
*They are sitting quietly chatting in the dining-room,
thinking me engaged with my studies. They have no idea of
what is passing in me nor what I am thinking of. I must
either be the Duchess of H , the wish I have most at
heart (God knows how much I love him), or a celebrity of the
stage; but this latter alternative attracts me less than the
first. It is no doubt flattering to be admired by the whole
world from the most insignificant individual to the greatest
sovereigns, but the other ! . . . . Yes, I'll have the man I
love, he is of quite another sort and I give him the preference.
A great lady, a duchess! I would rather be in society
than be the first among the world's celebrities, for in that case
I shall be of another worldj
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NICE, PARIS, VIENNA, 1873. 7
May 6th. — Mamma is up, and Mile. C too, for she has
been ill It was so fine, so clear after the rain, and the trees
looked so beautiful in the sunshine, that I could not go on with
my lessons, especially as I have time to-day. I went to the
garden, and put my chair near the fountain ; it made a magni-
ficent picture, for the fountain has tall trees round it, shut-
ting out heaven and earth. You see a little stream, with
rocks covered with moss, and all kinds of trees lit by the sun.
The lawn was so soft and green that I was really tempted to
roll about on it. The whole formed a kind of bower, so soft and
green and beautiful that it would be useless for me to try and
describe it, for I shouldn't succeed. If the villa and garden
remain unchanged, I shall take him to see the spot where I
have thought so much of him. Yesterday evenmg in nvy
prayers I entreated God to grant that I might make his
acquaintance — that he might be mine — and I wept on my
knees. Three times already has He granted my prayers. The
first time I asked for a croquet set, and my aimt brought it
me from Geneva ; the second time I asked His help to learn
English. I prayed and wept so much, and my imagination
was so wrought up, that it seemed as if an image of the
Virgin in a corner of the room were giving the promise. I
should even now recognise the image.
*I have been expecting Mile. Colignon for my lessons
during the last hour and a half, and it's the same every day.
And mamma blames me, and knows not that I am vexed, that
my heart is hot with anger and indignation! Mile. C
misses the lessons, and makes me lose my time.
I am thirteen years old ! If I lose my time what is to
become of me ?
My blood boils. I am quite pale, and the blood suddenly
goes to my head ; my cheeks burn, my heart beats, and I
can't stay a moment in the same place. The tears weigh on
my heart, and though I manage to keep them back it only
makes me more miserable. AU this ruins my health, spoils
my temper, and makes me impatient and irritable. The
people who pass their lives in peace show it in their faces, but
I get irritated every instant ! That is to say, in robbing me of
my lessons she really robs me of my life.
At sixteen and seventeen preoccupations of another kind
will engross me. Now is the time for studyj It is lucky
that I am not a little girl shut up in a convent, who, on enter-
ing the world, plunges madly m the midst of gaieties, and
believes whatever fashionable fops may please to tell her, and
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8 MARIE BASHKIBT8EFF.
finds herself disappointed and disenchanted a few months
after.
I don't want any one to think that as soon as my studies
are done T shall only think of dancing and dressing myself.
No ; but when I have done with lessons I intend seriously to
study painting, music, and singing. I have talents for all
three of them, and a great deal too ! What a relief it is to
write ! I feel more calm. All this annoyance spoils not only
my health but my temper and my features. When I get hot
like that, and my cheeks burn like fire, they lose their fresh
look and rosiness. . . This colour which I ought always to
have leaves me looking pale and ruffled. It is Mile. C 's
fault, being due to the irritation of which she is the cause. I
even have little headaches after getting into this kind of
fever. And mamma blames me — says it's my fault if I don't
speak English. How provoking !
I think that if he reads this Journal one day he will think
it foolish, especially my declarations of love. I have repeated
them so often that they have lost all their meaning.
Mme. Savelieff is dying ; we are going to see her ; she has
been unconscious for two days, and unable to speak. Old
Mme. Paton is with her. At first I saw nothing, though I
looked for the sick woman in the bed. Then I caught sight
of her head, but she has changed from a stout woman into
quite an emaciated one. Her mouth was wide open, her eyes
glazed, her breathing difficult. People talked in subdued
tones. She made no sign. The doctors say that she feels
nothing, but I think that she hears and understands every-
thing that's going on around her, but can neither cry out nor
say anything. \\ hen mamma touched her she gave a kind of
groan. Old Savelieff met us on the stairs, and, bursting into
tears, he took mamma's hand, and said, sobbing, " You are ill,
too, and take no care of yourself ; look to it, poor dear ! "
Then I kissed him in silence. His daughter came next ; she
threw herself on the bed, calling her mother. She has
been in this state for five days past. To see one's mother
dying day by day ! I went into another room with the old
man. How he has aged in these few days! Everybody
else has some consolation. His daughter has her children,
but he is alone! He has lived with his wife for thirty
years, and that is something. Did he live well or ill witn
her ? But habit counts for much. I went back several
times to the sick woman. The housekeeper is quite beside
herself; it does one good to see so much affection for
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NICE, PARIS, VIENNA, 1873. 9
her mistress in a servant. The old man is almost turning
childish.
Ah ! when one considers, how miserable is man ! Every
beast when it pleases may look as it likes ; it needn't smile
when it feels inclined to weep. When it has no wish to see
its kind it does not see them, out man is the slave of everything
and everybody. And yet I inflict the same thing on myself;
I like to go and see others ; I like them to come and see me.
It's tne tirot time I do a thing against my inclination ; vet,
how often shall I be obliged to smile when I feel inclined to
weep, and vet it's of my own accord that I've chosen this life
— this worldly life ! Ah ! but I shall have no trouble of this
sort when I am grown up. When he is with me I shall
always be gay.
Mme. Savelieff died last night. Mamma and I went to
her house. A great many ladies were there. What shall I
say of this scene ? Grief to the right, grief to the left, grief
up in the ceiling, grief down on the floor, grief in the flame
of every taper, grief in the air itself. Her daughter, Mme.
Paton, has had a fit of hysterics, and everybody wept. I
kissed her hands, and made her come and sit beside me. I
wanted to say some words of comfort to her, but could not.
What comfort is there except time ! And then all the conso-
lations I could think of seemed stupid and commonplace. I
said that the person most to be pitied was the old man who
remained alone! alone! alone! . . . Oh God! what's to
be done ? I say all must come to an end. That's my argu-
ment. But if one of us died it would have no weight with me.
I had quite a discussion to-day with my drawing-master,
M. Binsa I told him I wanted to study seriously, and to
begin at the beginning; that what I was doing taught me
nothing ; that it was waste of time ; and that next Monday I
want to begin drawing. He's not to blame if he did not make
me study seriously. He thought that I had had lessons
before, and had been in the habit of drawing eyes, mouths,
etc. . . . And this drawing they showed him was the first
one I had done in my life, and quite by myself.
This is a day rather different from the others, which are
so monotonous and always the same. At my arithmetic
lesson I asked Mile. C to explain something to me. She
remarked that I ought to make it out for myself. I pointed
out to her that what I don't know ought to be explained to me.
" There is no question of ought in the matter/' said she.
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10 MAMIE BASHKIRT8EFF.
" There is an oxvght in everything," I replied " Wait a
minute and I will try and solve this first difficulty before
passing on to the second." I spoke in an extra calm voice,
and she was furious to find nothing rude in my words. She
robs me of my time ; here are four months of my life
wasted .... It's easy to say she is ill ; but why should I
be the sufferer ? She spoils my future happiness by wasting
my time. Each time I ask her to explain something she rives
me a rude answer. I won't be spoken to like that ; she's irrit-
able being ill, but it makes her unbearable. Just at the time
when I get very annoyed, nay angry, I grow unnaturally
calm. My tone vexed her, she expected an outburst of anger
on my side.
" i ou are thirteen years old ; how dare you ! "
" Precisely, mademoiselle, because I am thirteen years old,
as you remark, I won't be spoken to in this way ; don't shout,
I beg of you." She exploded like a shell, with all manner of
horrid speeches. To all her incivilities I replied quite
placidly, which only enraged her the more.
" It s the last lesson I give you ! "
" Oh, so much the better ! " said I. When she left the
room I heaved a long sigh like one who is delivered from a
hundredweight of books tied round his throat. I left the
room full of contentment to look for mamma. She ran after
me in the passage and began afresh. I stuck to my tactics
and said nothing. We went along the passage to mamma's
room together, she like a * fury, and I with the most imper-
turbable air. I went to my room, and she asked for permission
to speak to mamma.
I had a horrible dream last night. We were in a strange
house, when I, or some one else whom I can't remember,
looked suddenly out of the window. I saw the sun growing
bigger and covering nearly half the heavens, but it emittea
neitner light nor heat. Then it broke up and one-fourth dis-
appeared, the rest fell into fragments which changed their
colour and bathed us in gold ; then half of it was covered by
a cloud. We all cried out, " The sun is standing still ! "
Just as if we usually saw it turn round. For a few instants
it remained motionless, but dim. Then the earth herself
became something unnatural, not that she exactly lost her
balance, but it's not to be described, the thing is inconceivable
in everyday existence. There are no words to express what
we don't understand. Then the sun began to turn round like
two wheels one within the other ; that is to say the bright sun
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NICE, PARIS, VIENNA, 1873. 11
was covered at intervals by a cloud as round as itself. The
confusion erew general, and I asked myself whether the end
of the world had come ; but I hoped that it might only be for
a moment. Mamma was not witn us, she arrived in a kind of
omnibus, and did not seem afraid. Everything was strange, for
this omnibus was not like others. I then began looking out
my dresses ; we began packing our things m a little box.
But thereupon it began all over again. It is the end
of the world, and I ask myself why God has not forewarned
me, and I ask myself how I can be worthy to be present at
this day, in the flash. Everybody was frightened, and we got
into a carriage with mamma, and returned to I know not
where
What is the meaning of this dream ? Has God sent it
to prepare me for a great event, or is it simply a matter of
nerves ?
Mile. goes to-morrow. It's a little sad all the
same ; it makes one sad to part even from a dog with whom
one has been living. In spite of the good or bad terms we
were on, I have a heartache.
In passing Gioia's villa my attention was attracted by
the little terrace to the right. There it was that I saw him
sitting with her last year in going to the races. He was sitting
in his usual noble and graceful way, holding a cake. I re-
member all those trifling things so well !
We looked at him in passing, and he at us. He is the only
one mamma talks about ; she is very fond of him and I am
delighted. She said, " You see, if H chooses to eat cakes,
why shouldn't he ? he is at home here." I could not yet account
to myself for the kind of confusion I felt in seeing nira. Only
now I begin to understand it, and I remember the least details
about him, and his most insignificant words.
When Reini came to tell me at the races at Baden that he
had just been speaking to the Duke of H , my heart gave
a leap which puzzled me. And then when Gioia was sitting
beside us at those same races and speaking of him, I hardly
listened to her. Oh ! what wouldn't I give to be able to hear
those words to-day. And when I passed the English shops he
was there and looked at me derisively as much as to say :
"What a funny little girl this is, what can she be thinking
of ? "... . He was quite right, I was very funny, with my
little silk frocks — indeed, I was ridiculous ! I did not look at
him, and yet every time I met him my heart beat so violently
that it hurt me. I don't know whether any one else has
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12 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
experienced the same thing; but I get frightened when my
heart beats so loudly lest any one should hear it. Formerly
I used to think that the heart was a mere piece of flesn,
but I see now that it's in communication with the mind.
I understand now when one savs, " How my heart beats ! "
Formerly, when I went to the theatre I paid no attention
when some one said so ; now I recognise the emotions which I
have experienced.
The neart is a piece of flesh which communicates with the
brain by means of a little string, which in its turn receives
the news from the eyes or the ears, and all this causes the
heart to speak to you, because the little string is moved and
makes it beat more than usual, and sends the blood to your
face.
Time passes like an arrow. In the morning I do my
lessons ; at two I practise. The Apollo Belvidere that I
am about to copy is a little like the duke ; especially when
one examines the expression, the resemblance is striking.
The same way of holding the head, and the nose exactly like
his.
My music-master, Manoti, is delighted with me this
morning. I played part of Mendelssohn's Concerto in E minor
without a single mistake. The next day at the Russian
Church, the festival of the Trinity. The church was deco-
rated with flowers and leaves. There were prayers, and the
priest prayed for forgiveness of sins ; he mentioned them all
as he knelt in prayer. What he said was so applicable to
myself that I remained motionless listening and joining in the
prayer.
This is the second time I have praved well in church ; the
first time was on New Year's Day. Mass has become so com-
monplace, and the things spoken of are not everyone's every-
day concerns. I go to Mass, but I don't pray. The prayers
and the psalms thev sing have no bearing on the feelings of
my heart and soul Thev prevent my praying in peace,
whereas these Te Deums, where the priest prays for all of us,
so that each one may find something to suit him, touch
me to thejjuick
T Paris. — At last I have found what I wished for without
knowing it. To live means Paris ! . . . Paris means to
live. I made a martyr of myself because I didn't know what
I wanted. Now that I see more clearly, I know what I want.
Move from Nice to Paris, furnish a flat, and have horses just
as at Nice ; to be introduced to society by the ambassador of
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NICE, PARIS, VIENNA, 1873. 13
Russia ; this, this it is I want. How happy one is when one
knows what one wants ! There's something, however, which
tortures me ; I think I am plain. It's horrible !i
We have been to the photographer Valery, 9, Rue de
Londres, and I saw the photograph of G . How beautiful
she is ! But in ten years she will be old ; in ten years I shall
be grown up ; I might be handsome if I were taller. I was
taken eight times. The photographer said, " If it succeeds
this time I shall be satisfied." We left without knowing how
it had turned out.
After our last walk in town we arrived in time to take
our departure.
A thunderstorm burst overhead; the lightning was ter-
rible. Sometimes it struck the ground in the distance, leaving
a silvery furrow in the sky as narrow as a Roman candle.
Nice. — To be in Nice is to be in exile ; but I must chiefly
give my attention to arranging the days and hours with my
teachers. On Monday I recommence my lessons, so abomin-
ably interrupted by Mile. Colignon.
The gav world will return with the winter, and will bring
gaiety with it. It will no longer be Nice, but a little Paris,
and the races ! Nice has its good points. Nevertheless, the
six or seven months we must spend here seem to me like a
sea that I must cross without losing sight of the lighthouse
which guides me. I have no hope of landing ; no, I only
hope at present to see this land, and the sight alone will give
me strength and energy to live till next year. And then ?
and then ?....! really don't know ! . . . . but
I hope and trust in God, in His divine goodness, so I don't
lose neart.
" He whom God has in His keeping will find peace in the
mercy of the Almighty. He will cover thee with His wings ;
thou wilt be safe beneath their stay ; His truth will be thy
shield ; thou shalt neither be afraid of the arrow that flietn
by night nor of the pestilence that walketh at noonday ! "
I cannot express how much I am moved, and how deeply
I feel the goodness of God towards me.
Mamma is in bed, and we are all sitting by her bedside,
when the doctor, on returning from the Patons, tells us that
Abramowich is dead ! How terrible, strange, and incredible !
I can't believe that he is dead. One can't die when one is so
charming, and amiable ! It always seems to me that he will
come back next winter with his famous overcoat and plaid,
Death is frightful! I am really very sorry for his death.
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14 MARIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
Is it possible that people like the G 's the S J s live on,
while a young man like Abramowich must die! We are
all stunned Even Dina uttered an involuntary exclamation.
I hasten to write to Helen Howard. Everybody was in my
room when we heard the sad news.
June 9th. — I have begun drawing, but feel tired, languid,
and unfit for work. These summers at Nice are killing me ;
not a soul in the place. I suffer, and feel ready to cry. One
can live but once. To pass a summer at Nice is to lose half
one's life. Now I am crying; a tear has dropped on the
paper. Oh, if mamma and the others knew how much it
cost me to stop here, they would not keep me in this horrible
desert. I am not preoccupied with him — it is so long since
any one has mentioned his name. He seems to be dead. And
I live in a sort of fog ; I can hardly recall the past, and the
present seems hideous ! .... I am quite altered ; my
voice is hoarse, my face ugly ; formerly, on waking, I used to
look fresh and rosy. .... But what is fretting me so ?
What has happened ? What is going to happen ?
f The villa Bacchi is let. It is really a great trial to live
there ; it may be very well for a bourgeois, but for us it is
different As for me, I am an aristocrat. I'd
sooner have a broken-down gentleman than a rich bourgeois ;
an old piece of satin or tarnished gilding, weather-beaten
columns, or faded ornament, have more charm for me than
the most costly furniture which is showy and wanting in taste.
A real gentleman will not be vain of highly-polished boots
and tight-fitting gloves. Not that one ought to be careless
about dress — by no means. But what a difference there is
between the negligence of the noble and the negligence of the
ineedy !
We are about to leave this flat, and I am sorry for it ; not
because it is comfortable and handsome, but because I am
used to it, and feel as if it were an old friend. To think that
I shall never see my dear little study again. How much I
have thought of him in that room ! This table on which I
am leaning, and where I used to write every day what my
soul holds most sacred. These walls I looked upon, wishing I
could pierce them and go far, far away. I saw him in every
flower of the wall-paper ! What scenes I pictured to myself
in this study, where ne played the principal part! I fancy
there's not a thing in this world, from the simplest to the
strangest, that I dion't think of in this little room.
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NICE, PARIS, VIENNA, 1873. 15
This evening Paul, Dina, and I, sat together, and then they
left me alone. The moon was shining into my room and 1
did not light the candles. I went out on the terrace and
could hear the sound of violins, guitars, and flutes, in the
distance. I came in again quickly and sat down near the
window so as to hear better. It was a charming trio. I have
not listened to music with so much pleasure for a long time.
At a concert one is more occupied in looking at the audience
than in listening, but this evening, quite alone in the moon-
light, I may say 1 devoured this serenade, for it really was one.
Some young men of Nice gave us a serenade. Could anything
be more gallant ? Unfortunately, the- young men in society
won't hear of such amusements, they prefer passing their
time at music-halls, while real music What can
be more charming than to sing serenades as they did in Spain
of old ? Upon my word, next to having horses I could wish
for nothing better than to pass the rest of my existence be-
neath the window of my charmer, and finish up at her feet
I do so want a horse ! Mamma has promised me one, and
my aunt also. I went to her room one evening in my airy
manner and asked her for it most enthusiastically ; she has
f'ven me her promise. I went to bed feeling quite happy,
verybody tells me I am pretty ; but really and truly I don't
think so. My pen refuses to write it. I am only pre-
possessing, and pretty now and then, but I am happy. . . .
1 I am to have a horse. Was there ever such a little girl
with a real racehorse ? I shall create a sensation
What colours shall my jockey have ? Grey and lilac ?
No, green with a delicate shade of pink. A horse for me !
Dear, but I am happy. What a creature am I ! Why not
give of my overbrimming cup of life to the poor who have
nothing ? Mamma allows me money, they snail have half
of itj
1 have been arranging my room again; it looks prettier
without the table in the midale. I put a number of trifles
about — an inkstand, a pen, two old long forgotten candle-
sticks.
^"Society is my breath of life ; it calls, it beckons to me, I
would like to run to it. But I am not old enough to go out
yet But I burn with impatience to see the world, not in
order to get married, but I wish mamma and my aunt would
fet out of their lazy ways. I don't mean the world of Nice,
ut of Petersburg, London, or Paris ; there I could breathe
freely, for the restraints of society come easy to me.j
D
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16 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Paul has no taste as yet, he knows nothing of the beauty
of women. I have heard him say, " Do you call those scare-
crows beautiful?" I must try and form his taste and
manners. I have no influence over him yet, but I hope with
time. ... At present, almost imperceptibly, I impart to
him my way of seeing things along with notions of the
strictest morality under a frivolous appearance; it pleases,
and that's good. If he marries he must love his wife, and his
wife only. In fact, heaven consenting, I hope to give him
right views.
Tuesday, July 29th. — Here we are off to Vienna. We
were very gay at starting on the whole. As usual, I was the
life of the party.
After Milan the country is delightful ; so green and flat
that your gaze seems to stretch into space with no fear of
mountains rising up like walls to shut out the view.
At the Austrian frontier, while I was hastily dressing, the
door was opened and the doctor sprinkled us with a powder
as a safeguard from the illness I dare not mention.* I went
to sleep again till eleven o'clock. I did not dare open my
eyes. What verdure, what trees, what clean-looking houses,
what charming German women, how well the fields are
cultivated ! It s charming, delicious, magnificent ! I am not
indifferent to the beauties of nature, as they assert ; on the
contrary. It is true I don't admire arid rocks, grey olive
trees, a dead landscape. But I delight in mountains covered
with trees, in plains cultivated to the utmost or covered
with a carpet ot velvet and diversified by labourers, by peasant
women, by hamlets.
Indeea, I never tire of looking out of window and admir-
ing the scenery. One goes so last by the express. It all
flies past, and is so beautiful. I admire this kind of scene
with all my heart. At eight o'clock I sat down, for I was
tired. At one of the stations some little German girls
were calling out : " Friseh Wasser ! FriseJt, Wasser ! " l)ina
has a headache.
By the way, I frequently try to know what it is that I
have always facing me, yet always hidden, in a word, the truth.
Whatever I think, whatever I feel, is outside myself after all.
Well, I don't know, it seems to me there's nothing. As for
example, when I see the duke I don't know whether I hate or
adore him. I want to re-enter my soul and can't. When I
want to solve a difficult problem I "begin to reflect till I fancy
•Cholera.
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NICE, PARIS, VIENNA, 1873. 17
I have it, but just when I want to gather up my ideas it
all disappears, and my thought flies so far that I am
surprised and can make nothing of it All that I say does
not touch my inner self ; I have none. I only live externally.
To come or go, to have or not to have, is all the same to
me ; my pains and pleasures and sufferings don't exist.
Only to picture my mother or H fills my heart with
love; as regards the latter, not cjuite, however, it seems so
incredible to me that I only think of him in the clouds;
I can't understand.
There are people who say that a husband and wife can
have separate pastimes and love each other very much.
Its an untruth, they can't ; for when a young man and
maid are in love with each other, can they think of others ?
They love, and find sufficient enjoyment in being together.
A single look, a single thought, bestowed on another
woman, prove that one no longer loves the woman one loved.
For I ask again, if you are really in love with one woman
can you think of loving any other ? Of course not. Well
then, what's the use of jealousy and reproaches ? One cries
a little and must take comfort, as one does in the case of
death, by remembering that there's no help for it. While
the heart is full of one woman there's no room for another ;
but no sooner does it begin to grow empty than another
one enters bodily the moment she has touched it with
her little finger.
(Written on tlte margin in March, 1875.)
There's a good deal of truth in my reasoning at that
time, but one can see that I was but a child. That word
" love " so constantly used ! . . . . Poor me ! There are
mistakes in French; it would all have to be corrected. I
think I write better now, but not yet as I would like to.
Into what, hands will my Journal fall ? So far it can only
possess an interest for me and my family. I should like to
become some one whose Journal could not fail to interest
everybody. But to begin with, I write for myself, for will it
not be a tine thing to pass all one's life in review ? . . . .
Friday, August 29th. — This morning I went to the fruit
market with the Princess. She bargained, I paid what
they asked. I only go once in a way; and to think of
bargaining I . . . . I gave a few sous to the children. Dear
me, what a pleasure! They looked upon me as a kind of
v 2
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18 MARIE BASIIKFHTSEFF.
Providence: I don't bargain and give sous. One of the
women said, "How charming you are!" Oh, if Heaven
would look kindly upon me !
I went back to the house ; they looked at and envied me.
I have begun arranging my hours of study. I shall have
done to-morrow ! I must study nine hours a day. God
grant me energy and courage to apply myself ; I have both,
Dut would like still more.
September 2nd. — The drawing-master has come. I gave
him a list so that he may send me the teachers of the
college. At last I shall set to work. Owing to Mile. Colignon
and our journey I have wasted four months ; it's appalling.
Binsa applied to the Censor, who asks a day. Seeing the list
I had made out he asked : " How old is the young lady who
wishes to study all that and has drawn up this programme ? "
That stupid Binsa said : " She is fifteen." But I gave him
such a scolding. I am in a towering rage. Why say I am
fifteen years old ? its a lie ! As an excuse for it he asserts
that I am twenty to judge by my reasoning powers, and that
he thought he was doing right by adding two years to my
age, etc. etc. To-day at dinner I insisted on the man going
to the Censor and telling him my real age. / insisted
upon it.
Friday, September 19th. — I remain in good spirits under
all circumstances ; we must not be saddened by regrets.
Life is so short, one must laugh as much as possible. Tears
come of themselves, we must try and av9id them. There
are sorrows it is impossible to escape — death and separation ;
and even the latter is sweet as long as there's hope ; but to
spoil life with petty annoyances, fie! I lay no stress on
trifles, as I hate the little daily troubles ; I pass them by
with a laugh.
Saturday, December 20th. — Scalkiopoff has come, and
remarked in the course of conversation that men were
degenerate monkeys. He is a little man with ideas like
uncle Nicholas. Then you don't believe in God, I asked ?
To which he replied, "I can only believe in what I under-
stand."
Oh, the horrid creature ! All boys as soon as moustaches
begin to grow think after that fashion. They are young green-
horns who fancy women can't reason and understand. They
consider they are dolls who talk without knowing what
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NICE, PARIS, VIENNA, 1873. 19
they say. They listen to theui with an air of pro-
tection. ... I told him all that, with the exception of
calling him a horrid creature ; and as he has no doubt
been reading some book, which he quotes and didn't under-
stand, he wishes to prove that God couldn't create l>ecause
frozen plants and fossils have been found at the Poles.
I have nothing to say against it ; but was not the earth
convulsed by various cataclysms before the creation of
man ? We cannot accept the statement literally that God
has created the world in six days. The elements were in
course of formation during centuries and centuries and
centuries ! But God exists. Can one deny Him on seeing
the sky, the trees, and men themselves? Is it not as if
there were a guiding hand to punish and reward, the hand
of God? . . .
Monday, October 13th. — I was looking for my lesson when
little Helder, my English governess, said to me : " Do you
know that the Duke is going to marry the Duchess M ? "
I held*the book closer to my face, for I^felt as hot as tire.
A sharp knife seemed thrust through in y heart. I began to
tremble so much that I could hardly hold the book. 1 was
afraid of fainting, but the book saved me. I pretended
to look for the exact place for several minutes in order to
get calm. I repeated my lesson in a voice that shook with
my uneven breathing. I plucked up all my courage in my
effort at self-control, as I used to ao when taking a header
from the bathing bridge. I wrote to dictation to avoid
speaking.
Witn infinite delight I went to the piano and tried to
play ; my tingers were stiff and cold. The Princess came to
ask me to teach her croquet. " With pleasure," I answered,
cheerfully, but my voice kept shaking. The carriage has
come. I make haste to dress. My gown is green, my nair is
golden, and with my pink-and-white complexion I am as pretty
as an angel or a woman. We drive out. G 's nouse
stands open ; there are masons at work, and, it seems, de-
corators or architects. She has gone. . . . Whither ? I sup-
pose to Russia to make her fortune. All the time I am think-
ing — "He is getting married! Is it possible?" I am un-
happy ! Not unhappy as I used to be formerly about a wall-
paper, or a piece of nirniture ; but really unhappy !
I don't Know how to tell the Princess that he is going to
be married (for they will know it one day), and it will be better
for me to tell them. I'll choose a moment when she is sitting
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20 MARIE BASHKIJITSEFR
on a sofa and the light is behind me, so that one can't see my
face. " Do you know the lastpiece of news, Princess ? " (We
were speaking Russian.) "The Duke of H is going to
be married." I had got it out at last. I didn't blush, I was
quite calm ; but how shall I describe what I felt ! ! !
Since the wretched moment when that busybody told
me the dreadful news I am out of breath, as if I had
been running for an hour, and my heart aches and beats
violently.
I have been playing the piano furiously, but in the
midst of it my lingers relaxed, and I leant back in the chair.
I begin again — the same story — and for at least five minutes
I begin and have to leave on again. There's a lump in uiv
throat which stops my breath. Ten times at least I rush
from the piano to the balcony. Heavens, what a frame of
mind! . . .
We go out for a walk, but Nice is Nice no longer, nor G
either ! The sight of her villa no longer affected me. It's all
part of the Duke, and on that account my heart aches at
the sight of those two empty houses. . . . He was the sole
attraction of Nice, and I now hate, and can hardly endure it.
I am bored ! Oh ! I am bored !
Moil time rcveus«
Ne songe qu'a lui;
Je snis malheureuse,
L'espoir a fui.
God, deliver me from misery ' O God, forgive me
my sins, and do not punish me ! It is all over ! . . . I grow
purple in the face when I think that it is all over ! . . . all,
all over ! . . .
1 am. happy to-day, I am delighted to think that it's not
true after all, as no one has repeated the horrid news, and I
prefer ignorance to the miserable truth.
Friday, October ]7th. — I was playing the piano when the
newspapers were brought in ; I take up Ualigmtw is Messenger \
and the first words I see speak of the marriage of the Duke
I did not drop the paper ; it remained, on the contrary,
glued to my hanas. I nad not strength enough to remain
standing. I sat down and read the crushing words at least ten
times in order to make sure I was not dreaming. Oh, divine
mercy, what have I read ! What have I read ! I could not
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NICE, PARIS, VIENNA, 1873. 21
write in the evening ; I went down on my knees and wept.
Mamma came in, and to prevent her seeing me in this state I
made a pretence of going to see if tea was ready. And I had
to take a Latin lesson ! Oh, torture ! I can't do anything ; I
can't remain quiet No words exist to express what I feel ;
but jealousy possesses, enrages, kills me ; it makes me* quite
mad ! .... If at least I could show my feelings, but I must
hide them and appear calm, which makes me all the more
miserable! .... When champagne is uncorked it sparkles
and then settles down, but if one only half draws the cork
it goes on effervescing ! . . . . No, this is not a true simile,
for I suffer and am crushed.
I shall forget in time, no doubt ! ... To say that my
grief will be eternal would be ridiculous — nothing is eternal !
But the fact is that at present I can think of nothing else.
This match has been brought about by the intrigues of his
mother. [(1880) All this to-do about a man whom I had
seen about a dozen times in the street, w/iom I didn't know,
and who was unconscious of my existence ! ] Oh, I hate
him ! I won't and I will see him in her company ! They
are in Baden-Baden — Baden-Baden that I was so fond of.
Those walks where I used to see him, those kiosks, those
shops ! . . [In reading this over in 1880 / fed quite
indifferent]
I have changed everything in my prayers to-day that re-
fers to him.. I shall no longer pray God to make me his
wife. . . .
To give up this prayer seems to me impossible, killing ! I
cry like a fool ! Come, come, my chila, let us be reason-
able!
It is all over ; yes, it is all over ! Ah, I see now that one
cannot do as one likes !
I must prepare myself for the misery of changing my
prayer. It is the worst sensation in the world — the end of all !
Ainenj
Saturday, October 18th. — I have said my prayers, and have
omitted praying for him ; for all, in fact. I lelt as if my heart
were being torn out ; as if I saw the coffin of a beloved one
carried away. As long a^,the coffin is still there, one is un-
happy, but not so much so as when one feels mere emptiness
everywhere.
I perceive now that he was the soul of my prayers, which
have become calm, cold, and reasonable, whereas formerly
they flowed with life and passion S ! He is dead for me, and
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22 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
the coffin has been taken hence ! My grief was tearful, and is
now dry ; may His will be done ! I used to send signs of the
cross to him in all directions, not knowing where he was ; I
have not done so to-day, and yet my heart beats.
I am a strange creature, nobody suffers as I do, and yet I
live, } sing, I write. How I have changed since the 13th
October, that fatal day ! There is a look of suffering in my
faca His name no longer produces a grateful warmth ; it is
a tire, a regret, a sting of jealousy, a feeling of sadness. It is
the greatest misfortune that can befall a woman. I know
what it is ! . . . sad mockery !
I begin to think seriously of my voice ; I should so like to
sing well ! What's the use now ?
He was like a lamp in my soul, and this lamp has gone
out. It is dark, gloomy, sad ; I don't know which way to turn.
Formerly in my little troubles I always found a support, a
light to guide me and give me strength ; but now, however
much I grope about and try to find a way there's nothing but
emptiness and darkness. It's horrible, horrible when there's
nothing in one's soul
I Tuesday, October 2lst. — We come in ; they are already at
dinner, ana we get a little lecture from mamma for having
eaten before dinner. Our charming family group is ruffled.
Paul gets a scolding from mamma ; granapapa interferes
where he has no business to, and by domg so injures Paul's
respect for her. Paul goes away, muttering like a servant.
I go into the passage to beg grandpapa not to interfere with
mamma's authority, and to let her do as she thinks best. For
it is a crime, if, from want of tact, anyone incites children against
their parents. Grandpapa began to shout, and that maae me
laugh ; his rages always make me laugh, and thus fill me
with pity for those unhappy ones who nave no misfortunes,
and make martyrs of themselves for sheer want of something
to do. Heavens, if I were only ten years older ! If I were
free above all ! But what can one do if one's hands and
feet are tied bv one's aunts and grandfather, by lessons and
governesses, anil the whole family ? The whole mob of them,
igreat heavens !
My grief is no longer acute, violent, and unexpected, but
has grown dull, calm, and reasonable ; but it has not grown
less on that account. No, no! The remembrance is all
that is left, and when I lose that I shall be most miserabla
I write such fine phrases that I grow stupid ; and to think
that I've never so much as spoken to him, that I've seen him
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NICE, PARIS, VIENNA, 1873. 23
close at hand about ten or fifteen times, and sometimes
at a distance, or in his carriage ; but I have heard his voice
and shall never forget it ! The more I say, the more I would
like to say. Yet I can't write what I feel. I am like those
unfortunate painters who invent a picture beyond their power
of execution.
I love and have lost him, that is all I can say, and it
expresses more than all !
After dinner, I sang and delighted the whole excitable
family.
Saturday, October 25th. — Yesterday evening I was called,
and told that mamma was very ill ; I went down to the
dining-room in a very drowsy state, and found mamma in a
dreaoful condition : everybody was standing round with
troubled looks. I saw that she felt very ill. She says she
wishes to see me before dying. I am quite horrified, but do
not let it be seen. It is a very bad lit of hysteria, worse than
any she has had. The whole family is in despair. The two
doctors, Reberg and Macari, are sent for. The servants have
been despatched in all directions for remedies. It is im-
possible to describe the horror of that night. I remained
all the time in an arm-chair near the window ; there were
plenty of people to do what was required, and in fact I am
not good at nursing. I have never suffered so much. Yes ;
I suffered as much on the 13th October, but in another
way.
At one time mamma was very bad. I could not contain
my feelings, and my first impulse was to pray. The doctors
came and went continually. At last tney succeeded in
putting mamma to bed in her room, and we all gathered
round the bedside. But she is no better The recollec-
tion of that night makes me shudder. The doctors say these
attacks are dangerous, but, thank God, the danger is over for
the present. We are all much quieter, and remain in her
room. As the sea grows calm after a great storm and
appears almost frozen, we were all sitting there so calmly
after such violent agitations that I hardly understood what
had happened.
Tuesday, October 28tk. — Poor mamma is no better ; those
brutes of doctors have applied a blister which has made her
suffer horribly. The best remedy is cold water or tea ; that's
simple and natural.
A person destined to die, dies in spite of all the doctors
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24 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
if, on the contrary, it is not his fate, he won't die even if he is
alone and without any assistance.
It seems to me, in that case, much better to do without
all those medical horrors.
Oh ! how I wish I were twenty ; I am only a dreamer
without a future and full of ambition ; how like my sorrows ;
how like my life ! I had fashioned it in my imagination, and
it has tumbled to pieces.
Although the duke is dead to me, I think of him still.
I feel quite lost; everything has become uncertain; I have
nothing to pray for.
Paul won't do anvthing ; he doesn't study, he isn't
sufficiently serious, he doesn't realise that he ought to study ;
it vexes me. O God, give him understanding ; let him see
that he ought to study ; inspire him with sufficient ambition
to enable him to become somebody. O God, grant my
prayer, guide him, protect him from all those miscreants who
mislead him.
I shall never care for a man who is in an inferior social
position to my own ; common people irritate and disgust me.
A poor man is shorn of half his individuality ; he appears
insignificant, wretched, and looks like an usher; whereas
a rich and independent man carries himself jyrvudly, and
has an indefinable air of comfort, an assurance of triumph.
I like H because he looks so self-complacent, capricious,
foppish, and cruel There's something of Nero in him.
P Saturday, November 8th. — Never let people see too much
of you, even those who love you. Go away when intercourse^
is at its best, so as to be regretted and leave illusions behind.
You will appear more interesting, more beautiful. One always
regrets what's past, and they will be eager to see you again ;
but do not satisfy that wish immediately ; make people suffer,
but not too much. Things that are too difficult lose in value.
One's expectations are disappointed. Or again, make people
suffer greatly, even too much .... then you will be queen^J
I think I must have a fever, I am too talkative, especially
when I am weeping inwardly. Nobody would guess it. I
sing, and laugh, and make jokes, and tne more miserable I
am the livelier seem my spirits. To-day I am incapable of
opening my mouth ; I have hardly eaten anything.
However much I may write, it will never express what I feel.
It seems as if they haa robbed me in taking the duke ; yes,
really it is as if I had been deprived of my property. What a
disagreeable frame of mind ! I don't know how to express it,
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NICE, PARIS, VIENNA, 1873. 25
everything seems too weak. I use the strongest term for a
trifle, and when I want to speak seriously I hnd myself run
dry, as if. . . . Enough ! if I go on drawing conclusions and
instituting comparisons I shall never end. Thoughts run into
one another ana get confused at last
Now that I look at mamma as if she were a stranger, I
discover that she is fascinating, beautiful as the day, although
worn by all kinds of worries and ailments. Her voice m
speaking is soft without being affected, but strong and gentle ;
her manners are charming, although natural and simple.
I have never in my fife seen any one who thinks less of
herself than my mother. She is as natural as nature ; and if
she would pay a little attention to dress, everybody would
admire her. It is all very well, but dress does much.
She attires herself in rubbish and heaven knows what !
To-day she has a pretty gown, and upon uiy word she is
captivating !
Saturday, October 29th. — I am never at peace for a minute.
I should like to hide myself far, far away, where there's no
one. Perhaps I should find myself again.
I have gone through jealousy, love, envy, disillusion,
woimded self-love — everything that's hideous in life. . . .
Above all, I feel his loss ! I love him ! Why cannot I remove
all that's in my soul ? But if I don't know what's passing in
me, I know well that I am dreadfully fretted ; that there's
something which gnaws at and stifles me ; yet all I say does
not express the hundredth part of what I feel.
I've hidden my face in my hand while with the other I
hold the cloak, which entirely covers me, even to the head,
so as to be in the dark ana collect my ideas, which are
scattered in all directions, and leave me quite confused.
My poor head!
There is one thing that troubles me ; to think that in a
few years I shall laugli at it all and have forgotten ! [(1875.)
It'* two years ago ntnv, and I dont laugh at it, and I have
not forgotten /] All these sufferings will seem very childish
to me, and affected. But no, I entreat you don't forget !
When you read these lines, look back ; think you are thirteen ;
that you are in Nice ; that it is just happening ! Think
what you felt at the time ! . . . You will understand . . «
You will be happy.
Sunday, November 30th. — I wish he would get married
more quickly. I'm always like that ; when there's something
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26 MARIE BASHKIBTSEFF.
disagreeable to be gone through, instead of wishing to put it
off', I should like to bring it nearer. When we were leaving
Paris, I hurried the time of departure, because I knew this
pill had to be swallowed. In the same way I eagerly awaited
our arrival at Nice, so as not to have to wait For the antici-
pation is even worse than the event itself.
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27
CHAPTER II.
RUSSIA— PARIS, MARSEILLES, NICE, FLORENCE, 1874.
Sunday, January 4th. — How sweet it is to wake up
naturally! I opened my eyes of my own accord without being
called ; it's like being on board steamer when on waking you
find you have reached your destination.
Friday, January $th. — Coming in from my walk, I
thought to myself, You'll never be staid and proper like
other young ladies. I never could understand how this
seriousness comes about How one suddenly passes from
childhood to maidenhood. I asked myself: How does it
happen? Little by little, or in a single day? The causes
which develop, ripen, or change you must either be brought
about by some misfortune or by love. If I were a wit I
should say the two things are synonymous; but I don't
say it, because I think love is the most beautiful thing in
the world. I may compare myself to a sheet of water
which is frozen below ana only agitated on the surface, for
nothing interests or amuses me at bottom.^
January Wth. — I am all impatience till to-morrow
evening, the 12th January, which is our Russian New Year's
Eve, in order to test my fortune in a looking-glass.
Aunt Marie has been telling us the most impressive things :
she herself tried her luck before the looking-glass; she saw
her husband and many things which have not yet come
to pass. She also tells us that one sees the most horrible and
terrifying things. I was so animated and excited that
I could eat nothing. I made up my mind to try my luck.
At half-past eleven at night I shut myself in my room ; I
arrange the mirrors and here I am at last! . . . For a
long time I saw nothing, then little by little I made out some
small figures, but not bigger than ten or twelve centimetres.
I only saw a crowd of heads, with the most whimsical head-
dresses imaginable ; toques, wigs, huge caps — all upside down ;
then I noticed a woman who was like me, all in white with
a kerchief on her head and one elbow on the table, her chin
lightly resting on her hand, her eyes looking up — she slowly
faaed away. I saw the white and black marble floor of a
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28 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
church, and in the middle, standing or sitting, a group of
people in fancy dresses ; I couldn't exactly make it out. To
my left I seemed to see several men as if in a mist;
a man in a dress-coat, and a bride ; but their faces were
invisible.
There was another man in the centre whose face I couldn't
see ; most prominent were the heads with the queer headgear
and I myself, I suppose, and all kinds of costumes changing
with every minute. The scenes were most brilliant. Just at
the beginning the decoration of the mirror endlessly reflected
seemed to me for a minute like a coffin ; but I saw my mis-
take. I own I was a little excited. I thought every minute
that I should see something horrible. To-morrow I shall tell
them all about it, for it's strange ; I dare say I should have
seen better had I not moved the mirror and my eyes. I
began the New Year by meeting those indescribably strange
ana fantastic costumes and head-dresses.
Long live the year 1874 in Russia, and farewell to 1873 !
Thursday, June 2nd. — During the whole of this winter 1
couldn't utter a sound ; I was in despair ; I thought I had
lost my voice, and I held my tongue and blushed when any
one spoke to me about it ; now it has come back, ray voice,
my treasure, my fortune ! I welcome it with tears and go down
on mv knees I said nothing, but I suffered cruelly, and
darea not speak of it, but I prayed to God and he has heard me.
. . . What happiness, what delight to sing well ! One fancies
oneself all powerful, one imagines oneself a queen ! One rejoices
at one's gift. It isn't the pride of gold or of a title. One is
more than a woman, one feels immortal. One is freed from
earth and soars to heaven ! And then all those people who
hang on your lips, who listen to your song as if it were divine,
who are electrified and enchanted. . . . You sway them all.
.... Next to actual royalty this is the best thing to strive
after. The sovereignty of beauty comes after, for it is not all-
powerful with every one ; but song carries man above the earth,
ne floats in a cloud like that in which Venus appeared to
iEneas !
Nice, July Uh. — We go to the church of St. Peter's ; the
young ladies alone. I prayed fervently on my knees with my
chin resting on my hand, which is very white and delicate ;
but remembering where I was, I hid my hands and arranged
my things in as unbecoming a way as possible by way of
penitence. I am in the same mood as yesterday, and put on
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RUSSIA, FRANCE, ITALY, 1874. 29
the dress and bonnet of my aunt In leaving church we see
A drive past, bowing, in his wretched Nice hat.
r In my present frame of mind I can't go home, and I
take my companions to the convent opposite the church,
and which leads by a back door to the Sapogenikoffs' house.
We enter the convent, bringing with us so much gjaiety
and nonsense that the holy atmosphere of the place is stirrea,
and the white and peaceful sisters look amused as they peep
curiously behind the doors. We see the Abbess behind her
double grating. She has been in the convent for forty years ....
Oh, misery ! We go next to the parlour of the boarders, and
I set Sister Th^rese dancing. She wants to convert me, and
praises the convent ; I also want to convert her, and praise
the world.
We are up to the ears in the Catholic religion. Well
I quite understand the passion one may have for churches
and convent^j
*" Tuesday, July 6th. — Nothing is lost in this world. If we
leave off loving one person, we immediately transfer our
affections to somebody else, even without knowing it, and
if we fancy we care for nobody we are mistaken. If it isn't
a man then it's a dog or a piece of furniture, and we love
it with the same passion, only in another way. If I loved
I should like my love to be returned with equal strength ;
I should not even tolerate a word from any one else; but
such love is not to be found. Therefore I shall never love
any one, for no one will ever love me as I could lovej
July 14th. — We have been speaking of Latin, of public
schools and of examinations; this has inspired me with a
burning desire to study, and when Brunet came I did not
keep him waiting, but asked him for an account of the
examinations. His account is such that I felt I should be
able to present myself, after a year of study, for a scholar-
ship. We will speak of it further.
I have been studying Latin since last February, and
we are now in July. According to Brunet, I have accom-
plished in five months what they do at the college in three
years. It's tremendous! I shall never forgive myself for
having lost this year. It will grieve me dreadfully ; I shall
never forget it ! . . . .
July 15th. — Last evening I said to the moon after leaving
the Sapogenikoffs : " O moon, beautiful moon, show me the
mail I shall marry ! "
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30 MARIE BASHKJRTSEFF.
After that you must not utter another word, and they
say that you see the man whom you are to marry in your
dreamsj
What nonsense ! I have seen S and A ; both out of
the question !
I am in a bad temper, everything's wanting, nothing
turns out right. I shall be punished for my pride and
stupid arrogance. Read this and learn, good folk! This
Journal is the most useful and instructive. of all books that
have been, are, or ever will be written. "It's a woman with
all her thoughts, her illusions, hopes, weaknesses, her charms,
sorrows, and delights. I am not yet a complete woman, but I
shall be on§j You will be able to trace rav life from the cradle
to the grave. For a person's life, her whole life, without any
concealment or untruth, must always prove a great and
interesting thing.
Friday, July 16/ h. — Owing to the transmigration of love,
all that I possess at present is centred on V ictor, one of
my dogs. He sits opposite to me at breakfast with his big
dear head facing me! Let us love dogs, let us only love
dogs ! Men and cats are contemptible creatures. And yet
dogs are nasty things ; they watch you greedily while you
are eating ; they like you for food's sake ; true, I never feed
my dogs and tney love me nevertheless. And Prater has
left me on Victor's account # and taken to mamma. And
look at men ! don't they want to be fed, are they not greedy
and mercenary ?
I shall avoid my destiny, I shall not go to Russia, for
I wouldn't miss Michael Angelo's centenary for the world.
Russia will keep till next year, but to see another centenary
I should have to live another hundred years, which can't
be expected. . . . And then, if I don't go to Russia it is
God's will. All that happens, happens for the best, says a
Russian proverb ; no one escapes his fate, says another one.
I have again addressed tne moon: "O moon, beautiful
moon, show me in my sleep the man I shall marry ! "
Saturday, July VJth. — They say that there are a great
many rogues in Russia who want a Commune^ how
horrible! To divide everything and share it in common.
And their detestable sect is so numerous that the papers
appeal to society in their despair. Will the fathers of families
not put a stop to this infection ? They want to annihilate
everything ; an end of civilisation, an end of art, so full of
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RUSSIA, FRANCE, ITALY, 1874. 31
great and beautiful things. Nothing but the material means
for existence; universal manual labour; and no one will
have the right, however great his merit, to rise above his
neighbours. They wish to abolish the Universities and all
higher education, and reduce Russia to a caricature of Sparta
I hope God and the Emperor may confound their schemes.
I shall pray God to protect the country from those wild
beasts. D seems struck by all I say, and astonished
to find such a fever of life in me. We speak of our furniture,
and he is perfectly thunderstruck at the description of my
room. " But it's a temple, a tale of the ' Arabian Nights ! ' "
he exclaims ; " but one must enter it on one's knees ! How
astonishing, unique, remarkable ! " He tries to decipher my
character, and asks me if I ever try my fortune in
daisies.
" Yes, very often," I replied, " to know if the dinner will
be good."
"Is it possible that with such a poetic and fairy-like
room you should ask a daisy whether the chef has been
successful with his dinner ? Oh no, I can't believe it ! " He
is much amused by my assertion that I have two hearts.
I enjoy his exclamation of surprise at the number of contrasts
in my nature. I soared Heaven high and then without
the slightest transition came plump to earth. I posed as
a person who wishes to live and enjoy herself without a
notion of love. And lost in astonishment he declared he
was afraid of me; that it's too strange, supernatural, and
dreadful
I prefer solitude when there's no one for whom to
live.
My hair, knotted Psyche fashion, is redder than ever.
With a woollen gown of that special shade of white which
is so becoming and pretty, with a lace fichu round the throat,
I have the look of a portrait of the First Empire. To make
this picture complete, I ought to sit under a tree, book in
hand. I like solitude before a mirror, so as to admire
my delicate white hands just touched with pink on the
paW
• It's perhaps silly to praise myself so much ; but authors
always describe their heroine, and I am my own heroine.
And it would be ridiculous to humble and abase myseli
owing to a false modesty. We may abase ourselves in
speaking when we are sure of being lifted up ; but in writing,
everybody will think I am speaking the truth, and so they
would thmk me plain and stupid — too absurd.
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.12 MARIE BASTTKIRTSEFF.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, I consider myself a treasure
of whom no one is worthy ; and those who dare aspire to this
treasure are looked upon by me as hardly worthy of pity. I
consider myself a divinity, and can't conceive how a man like
G can dream of pleasing me. I would hardly treat a
king as my equal, and it is well. For I look down on men
from such a height that I behave charmingly to them, for it
would not do to despise those who are so far below me. I
consider them as a cat might a mousej
Thursday, July 29th. — We were to have left to-day ; I have
gone through all the worries attending a removal We get
out of temper, run, forget, remember, and shout ; I am quite
unsettled ; and now they talk of remaining all Saturday.
Uncle fitienne wants to put it off. He has no energy for
anything. What a character ! He was to have left Russia at
the beginning of April, and only left it in July. It's very
trying; we are going to remain. When I show them that I
am (iisappointea, ana say that I won't go at all, they all give
way to me, and I go on pouting.
Monday, August 2nd. — After a day passed in shopping
and seeing dressmakers, in walking and flirting, I put
on a dressing-gown and begin reading my good friend
Plutarch.
I have a gigantic imagination ; I begin dreaming of the
love-making of past ages, and, without suspecting it, am the
most romantic of women — how unwholesome !
I can easily forgive myself my infatuation for the duke ; he
was worthy of me m all respects.
Tuesday, August Vlth. — I dreamt of the Fronde ; I had
just entered the service of Marie of Austria ; she distrusted
me, and I led her in the midst of the people in revolt, crying,
" Long live the Queen ! " and the people cried after me, " Long
live the Queen ! "
Wednesday, August 18th. — We have passed the day ad-
miring me — mamma admires me ; the Princess G ad-
mires me ; she is continually saying that I am like mamma,
or like her daughter, and that's the greatest compliment she
can pay any one, for people have a better opinion of them-
selves than of any one else.
It's true I am pretty. In Venice, in the Ducal palace,
there is a painting by Paul Veronese on the ceiling of the
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State room, where Venice is depicted as a tall, fair, and
blooming woman. I resemble that painting. My photographs
can never give an exact idea of my appearance, because tney
want colour, and because the matchless fairness of my com-
plexion is my chief beauty. But put me out of temper,
fatigue or annoy me by anything, then farewell to beauty !
For you'll find nothing more fragile than me. I am only
adorable when I am happy and serene. When I am tired
or vexed, I am no longer beautiful — on the contrary, I am
rather plain. I expand with happiness as a flower in the sun.
People will see me; there's plenty of time, thank God! I
am only beginning to grow what I shall be like at twenty.
I am like Hagar in the wilderness, I wait and long for a
living spiritj
Paris, Tuesday, August 24th. — I hope to be introduced into
society, that society for which I call loudly and on both knees
— for it's life, it's happiness. I begin to live and to try and realise
my dreams of being celebrated. I am already known to many
people. I look at myself in the glass and think myself pretty.
What do I want more ? God, in giving me a little beauty
(I say little from modesty), it is still more than I deserve,
coming from Thee. I feel I am beautiful, and I fancy I shall
succeed in everything. The world is full of smiles for me, and
I am happy, happy, happy!
The noise of Paris, this hotel as big as a town, with people
always walking, talking, reading, smoking, staring, makes me
awfully giddy. I love Paris and my heart beats. I want to live
faster ; yes, faster, faster "1 never saw such a fever of
life," D said, looking at me. Yes, I fear this desire to
live by steam may be the forerunner of a short life. W T ho
knows ? Come now, I am growing melancholy. No, I don't
want melancholy ^
Sunday, September 6th. — In the Bois there are so many
people from Nice that it seemed for a moment like being
there. I remember my last year's morning walks with my
dogs — that clear blue sky, tnat silvery seaw Here, there's
neither morning nor evening. In the morning they sweep
the streets ; in the evening I am irritated by those innum-
erable lamps. I am quite lost here, I can't distinguish
between east and west. But yonder, in the south, how
pleasant it is. It is like being in a nest, with those en-
circling mountains neither too high nor too bare. On three
E 2
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34 MARIE BASHKIRT8EFF.
sides they protect us like a fine and comfortable cloak, and
in front, like an immense window, is the infinite horizon,
always the same yet always new. I love Nice; Nice is my
country ; Nice made me grow ; Nice gave me health and a
brilliant complexion. It is so beautiful You rise with the
day and see the sun appearing over yonder, to the left
behind the mountains which are strongly outlined against a
sky of silvery blue and so soft and vaporous that it chokes
one with delight. At noon the sun snines in front of me,
it is hot, but the air is not hot for there's that incompar-
able breeze always so refreshing. Everything seems asleep.
There's not a soul on the promenade, except two or three
Nicjois nodding on the seats. Then I begin to breathe, to
admire. And then again the sky, the sun, and the mountains,
in the evening. But in the evening it's quite black, or a sombre
blue. And when the moon is shining on that interminable
road on the sea, which looks like a fish with diamond scales,
and I am at my window, quiet and alone, with a looking-glass
before me and two candles, I ask for nothing more, and go
down on my knees. Oh no, they will not understand my
meaning. They will not understand because they have not
experienced it. No, it is not that; I am utterly at a loss
whenever I try to make others realise what I feel ... It is
like a nightmare when one is powerless to cry.
For that matter no writing whatever will ever give the least
idea of real life. How describe that freshness, that aroma of
memory ? One may invent, create, but it's impossible to
copy. However much you may feel in writing, you only
produce common words — wood, mountain, sky, moon ; every-
body says the same thing. And, after all, why trouble about
it, what does it matter to other people ? They can never
understand it because it's not they but I, I only, who can
understand and remember. Then, again, men are not worth
the trouble it would take to make them understand it all
Every one feels for himself, as I do. I would like to be able
to make others feel as I do about me ; but it's impossible,
they would have to be I.
My child, my child, leave it alone ; you are getting lost
in these subtleties. You will go mad if you persist in
puzzling over this as you did once over your inner self. . . .
There are so many clever people ! Well, no ; I mean
to say let them disentangle it ... . Well, no, they can
invent, but not disentangle ; no, a hundred thousand times,
no! In all this one thing is clear — that I am home-sick
for Nice.
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V Monday, September 6th. — In this depression, in this
dreadful and continuous suffering, I don't curse life ; on the
contrary, I love it, and find it good. Would you believe it, I
find it all good and pleasant, even my tears and suffering.
I like to cry, I like to be in despair, I like to be sad
and miserable. I look upon it all as a pastime, and I love
life in spite of it I want to live. It would be cruel to
make me die when I am so accommodating. I weep, I
complain, and it pleases me at the same time; no, not
exactly, but I don't know how to express it. In fact, every-
thing in life pleases me, I find it all agreeable ; and while I am
asking for happiness, I find myself happy in being miserable.
It is not / who find it so; my body weeps and sighs, but a
something in me, which is allove me, rejoices at everything.
It isn't because I prefer tears to joy, but so far from cursing
life in my moments of despair, 1 bless it and say — "I am
unhappy ; I complain of life ; but I find it so beautiful that
all appears fair and happy to me, and I wish to live."
This somebody, who is above me, and who enjoys weep-
ing, has, apparently gone out this evening for 1 feel very
(unhappy.
I have done no harm to any one as yet, but I have already
been calumniated, offended, humiliated. > How can I love
men ? I hate them ; but God does not suffer hatred. Ah !
God forsakes me, God tries me. He sees how I take things ;
He sees that I do not hide pain under a cowardly hypocrisy,
like that rogue of a Job, who, while whining before our Lora,
made Him his dupe.
One thing vexes me above all — not so much the collapse
of all my plans, as the regret caused by such a series of mis-
adventures. Not on my own account — I don't know whether
I shall be understood — as because it pains me to see blots
accumulating on a white gown which we wished to keep
clean.
My heart contracts at every little annoyance, not for my
own sake, but from pity ; because every annoyance is like a
drop of ink falling into a glass of water ; it is never obliterated,
but, added to its predecessors, turns the glass of water grey,
black, and dirty. You may add as much water as you like
afterwards, it will always remain radically unclean. My heart
contracts — with every recurrence a fresh blot is left upon my
life, upon my soul. Isn't it so ? We feel a profound sadness
about the irreparable, even in trifling things.
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36 MARIE BA8HK1RTSEFF.
Thursday, September 9th. — We are at Marseilles; no
money has arrived My aunt, in order not to keep me
waiting, has gone out to pawn her diamonds. I feel nearer to
Nice, my own town, for, whatever I may say, it is my town.
I shall only feel easy at Florence with all my own things. I
have had my dress and hat brushed, and am waiting for aunt
to take a turn in the town.
I bought a novel at one of the stations, but found it so
badly written that I threw it out of window, for fear of
spoiling my style, which is already bad enough, and have
now come back to Herodotus, which I am going to read at
once.
Ah, what a delightful result! Poor aunt! I prostrate
myself before her. In what places has she been! What
people has she seen ! And all for my sake ! As she was
ashamed to ask the driver to take her to the pawn-
broker's, she inquired for a place where one could deposit
diamonds. How we laughed about this place where
diamonds are deposited! At one o'clock we leave this ill-
odoured town.
Since Antibes I do nothing but sing Nicois songs, to the
great amazement of the railway officials. The nearer we get
the greater grows my impatience.
Here's the Mediterranean, for which I have been sighing !
Those black trees, and the full moon lighting up that road
across the sea I
A perfect calm; no rolling of carriages nor perpetual
movement of people, looking such funny little men from my
window in the wand HoteL Rest, silence, a darkness par-
tially lit by the moon, who is hiding herself; only a few
lamps, which seem running after one another.
I go into my room, and then into my dressing-room. I
open my window to look at the chdteau, which is just the
same, and a clock strikes, I do not know what hour, but it
gives me a pang !
Ah ! well may I call this year the year of sighs ! I am
a little tired, but I love Nice ! I love Nice !
Friday, September 10th (Journey to Florence). — The
mosquitoes woke me up a dozen times during the night ! I
wake up a little pale, but comfortable. An, the English
know well what they mean by Home. Let the house be
what it likes, it is the pleasantest in the world ; this depends
neither on its comfort or wealth; for look at our house —
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RUSSIA, FRANCE, ITALY, 1874. 37
everything in it is upside down, hardly any furniture there
— disorder, neglect, visible everywhere, yet I feel content,
because I am at home, by myself, by myself ! . . . .
I don't think of my gowns, because I am so satisfied.
O Nice, 1 never thought to see thee again with such rapture !
If any one had heard me swear and curse it from the time of
our leaving Marseilles, they would think I hated Nice.
It is my way to speak ill of people and things I love.
I walk about silently, and pale as a ghost, collecting
all my memories scattered about the Promenade. Nice, for
me, consists in the Promenade des Anglais. Every house,
every tree, every telegraph-pole, has a pleasant or disagree-
able, a tender or commonplace memory. I feel as if I had
returned from Spa, Ostend, or London. Everything's just
the same. There's even that smell of wood peculiar to new
furniture.
I go into my room, and do up my hair exquisitely, in the
style of the Empire, and don my white gown — the one of the
portrait. It is a flowing gown, such as statues have, with
sleeves which I turn up above the elbow, cut somewhat high
in the back and lower in the neck, so as to show a little of the
bust with a broad piece of Valenciennes falling over it. The
loose folds of the dress are tied at the waist by a ribbon,
and also tied below the bosom by two ribbons sewn together
and tied in a simple knot No gloves, no ornaments. I am
charmed with myself. My white arms beneath the white
wool, oh, so white ! I am pretty ; I am animated. Am I
really in Nice ?
Sunday, September 12th. — This evening in Florence. The
town appears of moderate dimensions, but is full of life. At
every corner they sell water-melons in slices. I was much
tempted by those fresh, ruddy slices of melons. We look
on the square and the Arno from our window. I ask for a
programme of the fites — they began to-day. I thought
my friend Victor Emmanuel would know how to make the
most of this fine opportunity — the centenary of Michael
Angelo Buonarotti. In thy reign, knave of a king ! ! !
Ana thou dost not invite all the sovereigns, and give such
festivities as were never seen before ! And thou dost not
make a tremendous stir ! ! ! O king, thy son, thy grandson,
and their sons, will reign after thee, and to none will such
an opportunity be given. O great lump of flesh ! O king
without ambition, without pride !
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38 MARIE BASHK1BTSEFF.
There are meetings of all kinds — concerts, illuminations,
a ball at the Casino, the former Borghese palace .... but
no king ! . . . . Nothing as I would have liked and wished
it
Monday, September 13th. — Let me collect my thoughts a
little. The more I have to tell the less I write. . . . Because
I grow impatient and nervous when I have much to say.
We drive through the whole town in a landau and in full
dress. Oh, how I love those gloomy houses, those porticoes,
those pillars, the massive and grandiose architecture ! Hide
your diminished heads you French, Russian, English
architects — ye plaster palaces of Paris, fall crumbling to
the earth ; the Louvre alone excepted, it is above criticism —
but all the rest ! You will never reach the magnificent
style of the Italians. I opened my eyes wide when I saw
the great blocks of the Pitti Palace. . . . The town is dirty,
almost in rags, but what beauties there are! O city of
Dante, of the Medici, of Savonarola ! how full art thou of
splendid memories for those who think, who feel, who know !
What masterpieces ! What ruins ! O knave of a king !
Oh, if I were queen ! . . .
I adore painting, sculpture, in short art wherever it exists.
I could spend whole days in these galleries, but my aunt is
not well, she finds it difficult to accompany me, and I sacrifice
myself. Besides, life is before me, I shall have time to see
it again.
At the Pitti Palace I can find no costume to be copied ;
but what beauty, what painting ! . . .
Shall I say it ? No, I dare not . . . People will cry out
"Shame! Shame!" Come, be brave ! . . . Well then, Raphael's
Madonna della Seggiola does not please me. The Madonna's
face is pale, her complexion unnatural, her expression more
like that of a chambermaid than of the Holy Virgin, the
Mother of Jesus. . . . Oh, but there's a Maadalen by Titian,
which has enchanted me. But — there is always a but — her
wrists are too thick and her hands too fat ; fine hands of a
woman of fiity.
There are delicious things by Rubens and Van Dyck. Le
Mensonge by Salvator Rosa, is very natural, very good. I do not
speak as a connoisseur; that which is most like Nature
pleases me best. Is not the aim of painting the imitation
of Nature ?
I am very much pleased with the fair, fat face of Paul
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BUS&IA, FRANCE, ITALY, 1874 39
Veronese's wife, painted by himself. I like that style of face. I
adore Titian, Van Dyck, but as to poor Raphael. ... It doesn't
matter so long as no one sees what I write, they would think
me stupid. I don't criticise Raphael, for I don't understand
him. In time, no doubt, I shall understand his qualities.
However, the portrait of a Pope — I don't quite remember
which — but I think Leo X., is admirable. I have been
attracted by a Virgin and Infant Christ, by Murillo — it is
fresh and natural.
I found the picture gallery smaller than I thought, to my
great satisfaction. Those interminable galleries are killing, a
more terrible labyrinth than that of Crete.
I passed two hours in the Pitti Palace without sitting
down for an instant, and I am not tired. . . . Because things
I love don't tire me. I am of iron as long as there are
pictures, and, above all, statues, to see. Ah, if I were made to
walk through the shops of the Louvre or of the Bon March6,
or even at Worth's, I should begin to cry at the end of three-
quarters of an hour !
No journey has ever given me the satisfaction of this one ;
at last I find things worthy of being seen. I adore those
gloomy Strozzi palaces. And I adore these enormous gates,
these suj>erb courts, these porticoes, and colonnades. It's
majestic, it's grand, it's beautiful ! . . . Ah, the world is
growing degenerate; one is tempted to hide oneself in the
earth on comparing our modern buildings with these gigantic
stones piled one above the other and towering heavenward.
You pass under bridges uniting palaces at an enormous
height . . .
O my daughter, hold your epithets in check ! what will
you say to Rome ?
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40
CHAPTER III.
NICE, 1875.
\ Nice, Thursday, September 30th. — I go down to my
laboratory, and, to mjMiorror, find all my phials, all my
balloons, all my salts, all my crystals, all my acids, all my
tubes, uncorked, and everything thrown pell-mell in the
greatest confusion in a dirty case. I get into a rage, sit down
on the floor, and begint by smashing thoroughly what's only
half-broken. I don't touch what is left uninjured, however,
for I never forget myself.
" Ah ! you thought that Marie had gone ; was as good as
dead! So you break and scatter everything!" I cried, still
continuing to smash the things.
My aunt was silent at first, then said : " Is this a young
lady ? It's a monster ! a horror ! "
In the midst of my anger I couldn't help smiling, for this
sort of thing is quite on the surface, it does not reach mv
inner self, and at this moment I have the happiness to touch
mv inmost self, therefore I am quite calm, and look upon it
all as if it concerned somebody else.
Friday, October 1. — God does not do what I implore Him
to do. I resign myself (I don't, really, I wait). Oh, how tire-
some it is to wait, and to do nothing but wait ! This sort of
thing ruins women ; these contradictions and oppositions of
their outward circumstances.
If man* on coming into existence and in his first
movements experienced no resistance from his environment,
he would be unable to make any distinction between
himself and the outside world, he would come to the con-
clusion that this world is part of himself, of his own body.
According to the ease with which he reached it, by a gesture
or a step, he would be persuaded that the whole is only a
portion, an extension of his personal life ; he would say, boldly,
" I am the Universe."
You are quite right in saving that it's too good to be by
me, and I shall not try to make you think so. A philosopher
has said it, and I repeat it. Well, yes ; I dreamt of living in
this fashion, but the world around me has given me the blues,
* and I am exceedingly annoyed.
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NICE, 1875. 41
I have ventured to, compare all the people who have
pleased me with the duke. It's strange, but on all sorts of
occasions I see him completely before me, and I thank God
for it, for he is my light . . . What a difference ! How vividly
I remember ! My happiness consisted in seeing him ; I re-
mained on the terrace, sometimes I saw him passing by, and
went back to the house in ecstasy. I threw myself into
Colignon's arms ; I hid my face in her bosom ; she did not
check me, but raised me gently and" made me go to my
lessons, still quite bewildered and drunk with joy. Oh,
how well I understand that phrase — drunk with joy; for
1 experienced it. I did not look upon him as an equal ; I
never seriously thought of knowing * him. . . . and to see
him. . . . that was all I asked for. I love him still, and
shall always love him ! . . . How sweet it is to think of
him ! . . . . How pure is this memory ! In thinking of him
I rise above this slough of Nice. I am lifted up ; I love
him. When I think of this I can't write much ; I think, I
love, and that's all.
The state of confusion in the house is a great trouble to
me; these household affairs, these dismantled rooms, this
air of desolation and misery, make me sick at heart. O
God, take pity on me and help me settle it all 1 I am alone.
As to my aunt, it's all the same to her ; let the house fall in,
let the garden dry up. ... Not to mention details, as far as
I am concerned the neglect of these little household mat-
ters makes me nervous and spoils my temper. I am good,
amiable, and gay, when my surroundings are tasteful, sump-
tuous, and comfortable; but when everything is empty and
desolate, I, too, grow empty and desolate. The swallow builds
her nest, the lion has his den, how then should man, so
superior to the beasts, do nothing ? Though I say superior,
I don't mean to say that I esteem him. No ; I have a pro-
found contempt for mankind, and that from conviction. I
expect nothing good from it. It does not possess what I seek
and hope for — a good and perfect soul. Good people are fools ;
and the clever ones are eitner cunning or too much taken up
with their own wit to be good. Moreover, all human beings are
essentially selfish ; and pray look for goodness in an egotist.
Self-interest, cunning, intrigues, envy ! ! Happy are the am-
bitious, that is a noble passion ; we try at times to appear
good to others from vanity and ambition, and it's better than
never being so.
Well, my daughter, have you come to the end of all your
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42 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
wisdom ? For the present, well, yes. Thus, at least, I shall
haye fewer illusions. No meanness will annoy, no low action
surprise me. No doubt the day will come when I shall think
that I have found a man ; but I shall be sadly mistaken that
day. I foresee the day. I shall be deluded then ; I say it
now while I see clear. . . . But at this rate why live at all,
since everything in the world is meanness and rascality ?
Why ? Because to me the world apj)ears thus. Because what-
ever we may say life is a very fine thing after alL And with-
out going too deeply into life one can live happily. ^Trusting
neither to friendship nor gratitude, neither to faithfulness nor
honesty, let us bravely rise above human littleness, and tarry
between them and God. Eagerly seize what you can of life ;
do no harm to your fellows ; never lose an instant of pleasure ;
lead an easy, exciting, and splendid existence ; rise absolutely,
and as much as possible above others. Be powerful ! Yes,
})owerfiil ! powerful ! No matter how ! . . . Then yoii are
eared or respected. Then you are strong, and that's the
height of human bliss; for in that case your fellow-crea-
tures are muzzled through cowardice or otherwise, and don't
bite.
Isn't it strange to hear me argue in this fashion !
Well, but these arguments by a young dog like me are
one more proof of what the world is worth. ... It must,
indeed, be saturated with meanness and malice to have
saddened me so much in such a short time. I am only
fifteen
And this really proves God's divine mercy, for when I
shall be completely initiated into the abominations of this
world I shall see that there is only He in the sky above, and
/ on earth below. This conviction will give me more strength.
I shall only touch common things to rise above them, and I
shall esteem myself happy not to take to heart the littlenesses
for whose sake men fignt, devour and tear each other to pieces
like so many famished dogs.
What a lot of words ! And whither am I going ? And
why ? Oh, visions ! . . .
I rise higher and higher mentally ; my soul is great ; I am
capable of immense things ; but what's the use ? since I live
in a dark corner, uifcnown of the world.
There now, I am actually regretting my absurd fellow-
creatures. But I have never despised them, I seek them, on
the contrary; the world is empty without them. But, but
— I rate them at their true worth, and mean to make use
of them. The many are everything; what do I care for a
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NICE, 1875. 43
few superior beings ; I long for the world with its sounding
triumphs.
Wnen I think that. ... I must fall back on
that eternally tiresome but necessary word — Let us
wait! ... Ah! If they knew how hdrd I find this
waiting !
But I love life, I love its annoyances, as well as its
pleasures. I love God, and I love His world in spite
of its baseness, and perhaps even on account of all its
baseness.
It is still very fine ; this air is pleasant, the moon shines
clear, the trees are sombre, Nice is beautiful. The most
beautiful view in the world would not please me as much as
the one I have from my window. The weather is fine, but it
is sad, sad, sad !
I will read a little more and then go on with my psycho-
logical novel.
Why can one never speak without exaggeration? My
gloomy reflections would be just, if they were a little more
calm. My violent mode of expression takes away from their
naturalness.
There are pure souls, noble actions, and true hearts, but
they appear by tits, and so rarely that they must not be con-
founded with the world in general.
Perhaps people will say that I indulge in such thoughts,
because I have been annoyed by something; but no, I
have my usual vexations, nothing special Don't look
for anything but what is recorded in this Journal I
am scrupulous, and never omit a thought or a doubt. I
reproduce myself as faithfully as my poor intellect will
allow. And if you won't believe me, ii you try to look
for something beyond or behind what I am saying, so much
the worse for you. You'll find nothing, because there is
nothing.
* Saturday, October 9t A. — Had I been born a Princess de
Bourbon, like Madame de Longueville, had I counts to wait on
me, kings for parents and friends, had I on my first appear-
ance in life only seen heads lowered before me, had I never
walked but on coats of arms, had my head only reclined
beneath the regal dais, had I a long line of ancestors all more
or less illustrious and proud ; yes, had I had all this, it seems
to me that I could not be prouder or more arrogant than I
am j
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44 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
God, how I thank Thee! These thoughts that come
to me will keep me in the right path, and will not suffer
me for an instant to lose sight of the brilliant star towards
which I am advancing !
It seems to' me that at present I am not advancing at
all ; but I will advance, so it is not worth my while to alter
so fine a phrase. . . .
Ah ! I am sick of my nothingness ! I rust with inaction,
I wither in obscurity. Oh tor sunlight, sunlight, sun-
light! ....
Whence will it shine on me ? when, where, and how ? I
don't care to know if only it comes.
In my moments of mad ambition everything seems
beneath me, my pen refuses to write commonplace names.
I consider all my surroundings with infinite disdain, and
then I say to myself with a sigh : " Well, courage, this
is only a time of transition which will lead me to better
times."
Friday, October 15th. — I forget! My aunt has gone out
to buy some fruit outside the Church Saint- Reparate, in the
town of Nice.
The market-women immediately came round me in a
crowd. I sang Bossigno che void in a low voice. They
grew so enthusiastic that the old ones began dancing. I
said all I knew in Ni<;ois. In a word a popular succesa
The apple-women made a curtsey, saying Che bdla
regina!
1 don't know why the common people always love me,
and I too feel at home with them. 1 think invself a queen,
I talk to them benevolently, and take my leave after a
little ovation like to-day's. If I were queen the people would
adore me,
Monday, December 27th. — I had such a strange dream. I
was playing high above the castle holding a lyre in my hand,
of which the strings were constantly getting unstrung, and
I could not draw a single sound from them. I continued
rising, and saw immense horizons and a strange mass of
clouds, yellow and red and blue, silvery, golden, torn and
variegated, then they all grew grey, and after that again
dazzlmgly bright, and still I went on rising till I reacned
a height frightful to contemplate, but I had no fear; the
clouds seemed wan, frozen, and as bright as copper.
Then all grew dim. I continued holding my lyre with its
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NIOE, 1875. 45
loosened strings, and far below me hung a reddish ball, which
was the earth.
This Journal contains my whole life, my quietest moments
are those when I am writing.
If I should die young I shall burn it, but if I live to be
old, people will reaa this Journal I believe, if I may say
so, tnat there's no photograph as yet of a woman's entire
existence, of all her thoughts, yes, all, all It will be in-
teresting.
If I should die young, and if this Journal should, by some
unlucky accident, not be burnt, readers will say : " Poor child !
she was in love, hence her despair ! "
Let them say so, I won't attempt to disprove it, for the
more I shall say the less will they believe me.
Is there anything more mean, more stupid, more base,
than mankind. Nothing, certainly. Mankind has been
created for the perdition of ... . Dear me, I was going to
say the perdition of mankind.
It's three o'clock in the morning, and, as my aunt says.
I shall gain nothing by sitting up.
Ah ! I am impatient. My tune will come ; I would fain
believe it, but something tells me that it will never come,
that I shall pass my time in waiting .... always waiting !
.... waiting! .... waiting! .... /^
I am angry, and have not been crying ; I have not laid.
down on the noor ; I'm quiet. It's a bad sign ; it's better to
be furious.
Tuesday t December 28th. — I am cold ; my mouth burns.
I know well that it's unworthy of a strong nature to give way
to a petty annoyance, to feel irritated by the slights of a town
like Nice; to shake your head, smile contemptuously, and
think no more of it, would be too much. To weep with rage
gives me more pleasure.
I have grown so nervous that every piece of music which
is not merely a ffalop, sets me weeping. I recognise myself in
every opera, ana the most commonplace words give me the
heartacne.
Such a frame of mind is worthy of a woman of thirty.
But to have nerves at fifteen, and to cry like a fool at every
stupid and sentimental phrase, is too much !
Only a little while ago I went down on my knees sobbing
and imploring God, with outstretched arms, and looking
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46 MARIE BA8HKIRT8EFF.
right in front of me, just as if God were present in the
room.
It seems God does not hear me ; yet I cry loudly enough.
I think I say impertinent things to God.
I am so desperate, so unhappy just now, that I wish for
nothing. If all the inimical Nice society came to kneel down
before me, I wouldn't budge.
Yes ! yes ! I would kick it ! For, after all, what have I done
to it ?
God shall I pass my whole life thus ?
There will be pigeon-shooting on Monday, I don't even
trouble about it, wnereas formerly I
1 wish I possessed the combined talents of all authors, so
as to be able to give a true idea of my profound despair, my
wounded self-love, and all my thwarted wishes.
I have only to wish for a thing to make sure it won't
happen.
Shall I ever find a stray half-starved dog beaten by street
boys, a horse dragging enormous loads from morning till
evening, a donkey in a mill, a church mouse, a teacher
of mathematics without lessons, a destitute priest — in short,
any poor devil sufficiently sad, wretched, and crushed
sufficiently depressed and humiliated, to compare him to
me?
What is really dreadful is that past slights do not
slip easily off my heart, but leave a hideous trace
behind !
You will never understand my condition ; you will
never be able to enter into my existence. You laugh. . . .
yes, you laugh ! But perhaps there will be someboay who
will cry : " O God, take pity on me, hear my prayer ! I swear
that I believe in Thee."
A life such as mine, with a character such as mine ! ! !
I have not even the amusements of my age ! I have not
even what every American girl in short petticoats has ; I don't
even dance ! . . . .
Wednesday, December 29th. — O God, if thou wilt
suffer me to live as I like, I promise, if thou takest pity
on me to walk on foot from Kliarkoff to Kieff as pilgrims
do.
Is it not a sin to do what I am doing ? Saints have made
vows, but I seem to make conditions, rio ; God sees that my
intentions are good, and if I do evil He will forgive me
because I wish to do well
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NICE, 1875. 47
O God, forgive me, and have pity on me ; suffer me to
cany out my vows !
Holy Mary, I may be foolish, but it seems that you, being
a woman, are more merciful and indulgent ; take me under
your protection, and I swear to dedicate a tenth part of my
income to good works. ... If I do ill it's unintentional
Forgive me !
F
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48
CHAPTER IV.
ROME, NAPLES, NICE, PARIS, BERLIN- RUSSIA, 1876.
Rome, Saturday, January 1st, — Oh Nice, Nice, is there
a prettier town in the world after Paris ! Paris and Nice,
Nice and Paris. There's no country like France, one only
lives in France.
I must begin to study, considering I am in Rome on that
account. Rome does not make the impression of Rome
on me.
Is it really Rome ? I am perhaps mistaken. Is it possible
to live in any town but Nice ? To see other towns, to pass
through them, well and good, but to make your home in
them !
Never mind ! I shall get used to it.
And all those people I left behind at Nice, it seems as if
they must remain in the position in which I left them and
that they won't move until I return. Alas! they move
without me, they enjoy themselves without me, and care not
a hang for the " creature in white."
Being out of sight I should also like to be out of their
gossip.
I am told that they talk of me. I can't imagine it. I
can only think of the month of May when I shall make my
appearance in Nice, when I shall go with my dogs to the
Promenade des Anglais in the morning without a hat.
I feel here like a poor shrub that has been transplanted.
I look out of window and see iilthy houses instead of the
Mediterranean ; I go to look out of the other window and
instead of the castle see the corridor of the hotel Instead of
the clock from the tower I hear that of the hotel. . . .
It's horrid to get into habits and to detest change.
Wednesday, January 5th. — I have seen the front view of
St. Peter's, it is superb ; it has enchanted me, especially the
colonnade on the left, because no house interferes with it,
and those pillars with the sky for background produce the
most striking effect. You might fancy yourself in ancient
Greece.
The bridge and castle of San Angelo are also to my taste.
It's grand, it's sublime !
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ROME, 1876. 49
And the Coliseum !
But what can I say after Byron ?
Monday, January 10th. — We paid a visit to Mgr. de
Falloux, but he has not left his bed these twenty days.
From there to the Countess Antonelli, but she left Rome ten
days ago. At last we visit the Vatican. I have never seen
great people close at hand, and I never knew how to address
them, out my instinct told me that we were not behaving
as we ought. Just think, the Cardinal Antonelli, the pope
de facto if not in name, the mainspring that sets all tne
papal machinery going and still keeps it going !
We reach tne right colonnade in sublime self-confidence.
I push aside, not without trouble, the crowd of guides
surrounding us, and at the foot of the stairs I accost the
first soldier, and ask for His Eminence. This soldier sends
me to his chief, who assigns me to another soldier, very
funnily dressed, who takes us up four enormous flights of
stairs of variegated marble, and at last we reach a square
gallery, which coming so unexpectedly upon me produces a
great effect. I could not have imagined such a view in the
interior of any palace whatever, although I knew well from
description what the Vatican is like.
Seeing this immensity I should not like to see the Popes
abolished They are really great in having produced tnis
grandeur, and worthy of all honour for having used their
life, their power, and their gold, in leaving to posterity this
colossal Abracadabra called tne Vatican.
In this gallery we find some common soldiers, an officer,
and two guards aressed like knaves of cards.
I agam ask for His Eminence. The officer politely re-
quests my name, I write it down, some one takes it and we
wait, I inwardly wondering at our absurd escapade.
The officer tells me that the hour is badly chosen, as the
Cardinal is at dinner and will probably see no one. And in
fact the man returns and tells us tnat His Eminence has
just retired to his private rooms and cannot receive us, as he
feels slightly indisposed ; but that if we will have the kindnass
to leave our cards below and return to-morrow morning he
will probably admit us.
And so we leave, much amused at our little visit to
Cardinal Antonelli.
Friday, January \Uh. — At eleven o'clock Katorbinsky,
my young Polish drawing master, came, bringing a model with
F 2
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50 MARIS BASHKIRTSEFF.
him, a perfect head of Christ by softening the lines and tints.
This poor wretch has only one leg ; he only sits for the head.
Katorbinsky told me that he always sat to him for his figures
of Christ.
I confess I felt slightly nervous on being told there and
then to copy from Nature without any preparation ; I took the
charcoal and boldly sketched in the outlines. " Very well,"
said the master, " now do the same thing with the brush." I
took the brush, and did as I was told.
" Very well," he said again, " now begin to paint." And I
painted, and it was done in an hour and a half.
My wretched model had not budged, and as for me, I
could hardly believe my eyes. With Binsa it used to take
me two or three lessons to draw a pencil outline and to make
a copy, whereas now it was all done at a single sitting, and
from Nature — outline, colour, background and all. I am
satisfied with myself, and I wouldn't say so if I had not
deserved it. I am exacting, and find it difficult to please
myself.
Nothing is lost in this world. On what will my love be
expended ? Every creature, every man, contains within
himself an equal quantity of this fluid ; but according to his
constitution, his character, and his circumstances, he ap-
pears to have more or less; everybody loves continualty,
but the objects of it vary, and if he appears to love nothing,
it is because this fluid goes out to Grod, or to Nature, or
spends itself in words, m writings, or simply in thinking
or sighing.
It is true there are human beings who eat, drink, laugh,
and do nothing else ; with them the fluid is either completely
absorbed by the animal functions, or else scattered without
discrimination on men and things generally, and those are
the people usually called good-natured, who, as a rule, do not
know how to love.
There are also beings who love no one, vulgarly speaking.
This is incorrect ; they always love something, but differently
from others, in their own peculiar fashion. But there are also
unfortunates who don't love in reality, because they have
loved and love no longer. Another mistake ! They love no
longer we say, well .... Why, then, do they suffer ? Because
they still love though they don't think so, either on account
of an unhappy love or because of the loss of the loved
one.
With me, more than most others, this fluid is active, and
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HOME, J876. 51
manifests itself continually ; if I were to try to suppress it I
should burst.
I shower it like beneficent rain on an unworthy scarlet
feranium which has no notion of it. It is one of my fancies,
t pleases me, and I imagine a lot of things, and I have grown
used to think of it, and now that I am used to it, it is difficult
to get out of the habit.
I am sad ! I am afraid of being afraid For when I
anticipate some misfortune, it's sure to happen. I dare not
pray to God, for I have only to ask for a thing in order to
make sure that it won't happen. I dare not omit to pray,
for afterwards I might say — "Ah, had I only prayed to
God!"
Certainly, I will pray ; I shall have nothing to reproach
myself with, at least
r-
Thursday, January 20th. — Faccioti made me sing all
my notes to-day. I have three octaves, less two notes.
He was amazed. As to me, I am beside myself with joy.
My voice, my treasure ! It is my dream to erow famous
on the boards. It is quite as fine, to my mind, as to be a
(jprincess.
We went to see Monteverde's studio ; and then that of the
Marquis d'Epinay, to whom we had a letter of introduction.
D'Epinay produces wonderful statues ; he showed me all his
studies, all his beginnings. Madame M had spoken to
him of Marie as an artistic and marvellous being. W e admire
everything, and ask him to do a statue of me. It will cost
twenty thousand francs. It's dear, but beautiful. I tell him
that I think a great deal of myself. He measures my foo t by ypr
that of a statue, and mine turns out to be smaller DTEpinay
exclaims, " It's Cinderella's ! "
He arranges the hair and draperies of his statues admirably.
I am burning to be modelled.
p
God, grant my prayer ! Preserve my voice ; should I
lose all else I shall have my voice. God, continue to
show me Thy goodness ; do not let me die of grief and
vexation ! I long so much to go into society. Time passes
and I make no progress ; I am nailed to the same place, I
who would live, live oy steam, I who burn, who boil over, who
bubble with impatience !
" I have never seen in any one such a fever of life," said
Doria of me.
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52 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
If you knew me you would have some notion of my
impatience, my grief.
God, take pity on me ! I have only Thee ; it is to Thee
I pray ; Thou alone who canst comfort me !
Saturday, January 22nd. — Dina has had her hair done
by a hairdresser, and I too ; but the horrid creature has done
it frightfully. In ten minutes I have changed it, and we
start for the Vatican. I have never seen any thmg to compare
with the staircases and rooms along which we pass. As in the
case of St. Peter's, I find nothing to criticise. A valet, attired
entirely in red damask, leads us down a long, admirably
painted gallery, with bronze medallions and cameos fixed in
the walls ; to the right and left are somewhat hard chairs,
and at the end the bust of Pius IX., and beneath it a
comfortable gilt arm-chair of red velvet. Our appointment
was for a quarter to twelve, but only at one o clock the
portiire was arawn back, and, coming after a few guards and
officers in uniforms, appeared His Holiness the Pope himself,
dressed in white with a red cloak, and leaning on an ivory-
headed stick, between several cardinals.
1 knew him well from his portraits, but he is, in reality,
much older ; so much so that his lower lip hangs down like
an old dog's. Every one knelt down, and the rope, first of
all, approached us and asked who we were ; one of the
cardinals read the letters of introduction, and told him the
names.
" Russians ? Then, from St. Petersburg ? "
" No, Holy Father," said mamma, " from Little Russia."
" These young ladies belong to you ? " he asked again.
" Yes, Holy Father."
We were placed at his right hand, those to the left were
kneeling too.
" Get up, get up," said the Holy Father.
Dina was about to do so.
" No," said he, " I meant those on my left hand, you may
remain."
And he placed his hand on her head so as to make it bend
lower. He then gave us his hand to kiss, and went on to
others, addressing a few words to each. When he passed to the
left it was our turn to rise. He stopped again in the middle,
and everybody knelt down once more, and he made a little
speech in very bad French, comparing the demand for
indulgence at the coming Jubilee with the repentance people
experience at the approacn of death, and saying that we must
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ROME, 1876. 53
gain heaven little by little by doing something pleasing to
God every day.
"You must gain your country little by little," said he,
" but your country is not London, not St. Petersburg, not
Paris, it is Heaven. You must not wait to the last day
of your life, you must think of it every day, and not do as
one does at the approach of the Jubilee." " Non e vero ? "
he added in Italian turning to one of his suite, " anche il
Cardinale .... (I have forgotten the name) lo so"
The Cardinal thus addressed began to laugh, and the
others followed suit ; it must have nad some meaning for
them, and his Holiness went away looking very pleased and
smiling after having given his blessing to all the persons
E resent, the rosaries and images, &c. I nad a rosary which I
ave put away in my soap-box as soon as I got home.
\Vnile the old man was giving us nis blessing and
talking, I prayed God to bring about that the Pope's bless-
ing should prove a real blessing, and to deliver me from all
my sorrows.
There were some Cardinals there who looked at me just
as if they were coming out of the opera at Nice.
Sunday, January 23rd. — Oh ! how bored I am ! If we
were all together at least ! What a foolish idea to separate in
this fashion ! We should always remain together, there are
fewer annoyances and one feels more comfortable. Never,
never more must we separate. We should feel a thousand
times happier together — grandpapa, aunt, everybody, and
Walitzky.
Monday, February 7th. — As we got out of our carriage at
the door of the hotel I saw two young Romans looking at
us as we entered. We sat down to dinner at once, and the
men remained standing in the middle of the square looking
at our windows.
Mamma, Dina, and the others, laughed, but I, being more
pnident, and afraid lest I should betray any interest in what
might prove two knaves — for I was not sure of these two men
being tne same as those at the door of the hotel — sent L6onie
to a shop across the way, telling her to closely observe the two
persons and to come back and describe them to me. L£onie
returned, and described the shorter of the two. " They are
perfect gentlemen," she said. From that instant we do
nothing but go to the windows, looking through the blinds,
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54 MARIE BASHKIRT8EFF.
and making jokes about the poor wretches exposed to the
rain, wind, and snow.
It was six o'clock when we came home, and those two
angels remained in the sauare until a quarter to eleven,
waiting for us. What legs tney must have to remain standing
thus for five hours !
Monday, February 14£A. — The Italian came this evening
as usual Mamma has sent Fortune to buy some paper.
This gentleman stopped Fortune, and spoke to him on several
occasions. This is nis story, which, although not as classical
as that of Th£rarn&ie is none the less interesting, told in a
Ni<;ois accent not without charm.
" I went out to buy some paper, and this gentleman began
speaking to me. He said to me : ' Is it here that those ladies
live ? ' I answered ' Yea' Then he said to me : c If they
would pay a visit to my villa I would send them my coup6 or
a landau, whatever they wished/ Then I said to him, that
you didn't know him. ' The mother of these young ladies
knows me, and we meet each other every evening at the Villa
Borghese and on the Pincio/ I spoke so much to him that
he gave me his card. Then I brought it to you, and went
down-stairs. He began talking to me again. Then I told
him that my ladies had forbidden me to talk to him, and then
he said, ' I am going home to write a letter ; I shall return in
half an hour if you will come down and take charge of it/
Then I told him that 'I could not be always going down-
stairs/ Then he said to me : l If the ladies wui suspend a
strina from the window I will tie my letter to it, and they
can draw it up to the balcony. Hfcve the ladies got any
string ? ' Then I told him again that you did not know him.
He answered : ' But if the laaies will tell me by whom I can
be introduced, I will at once go in search of this person.
I made no reply to this. Then he told me it was all for
the sake of tne young lady who had been at the Villa
Borghese yesterday, and was dressed in black with her hair
down ' (it was Dina). Then he told me ' that if you would
go to see his villa, he would invite people and show it
to you, and if you liked he would send you his
carriage' . . . /'
Fortune's expression was a sight to see. He had crossed his
hands behind him, advanced one foot, his mouth stood open
to his ears, and his eyes, twinkling cunningly, looked tit for the
biggest devil on the face of the earth.
It's almost Spanish, and we laughed so much that Lolo
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ROME, 1876. 55
nearly fainted for a few minutes. A genuine romance k la
Rosina.
At first I was angry, and thought it impertinent ; but on
seeing how much pleasure it gave to Pina and her mother, I
forgot my anger, and joined the lively chorus of pleasant
banter.
Dinagot as red as a peony; she will now give herself
airs again; and' she is disagreeable when she gives herself
these airs.
This gentleman has a villa, he is rich, no doubt ! Oh
dear, if he would only marry Dina ! I wish it more than any-
thing ; and we have just had new gowns sent from Worth, hers
being all covered with white flowers exactly like orange
blossom.
Tuesday, Februainj 15th. — Rossi comes to see us, and
we ask him at once who this gentlemen is. "It's Count
A the Cardinal's nephew, he couldn't be anything
else."
Count A is like G who, as all the world knows,
is exceedingly handsome.
This evening, as ne looked less at me I was able to ex-
amine him more closely. So I had a good look at A
He is charming, but I must add that I have no luck, and those
I like to look at don't look at me. He looked at me through
his eye-glass, but respectfully, as on the first day. He posed a
good deal, and when we rose to go he snatched up his eye-glass
and never left oft* looking.
"I asked you who this gentleman is," said my mother
to Rossi, " because he remmds me a good deal of my
son."
" He is a charming young fellow," said Rossi ; " he is
rather passerdLo, very gay, very handsome, and full of clever-
ness."
I am delighted at hearing this. I have not felt so much
Fleasure as this evening for a long time. I bored myself.
had no wish for anything, because there was nobody to
think of.
" He is verv like my son," said mamma.
"He is a charming young fellow," said Rossi, " and if you
like I will introduce him to you."
" I shall be delighted."
Friday, Februanry ISth. — There is a grand fancy dress and
masked ball &t the Capitol this evening. I, Dina, and her
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56 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
mother, go there at eleven o'clock. I have not put on a
domino, but wear a black silk gown with a long train, and
tight-fitting bodice, a tunic of black gauze with silver
lace trimmings, draped in front, and bunched up behind,
so as to make the most graceful hood imaginable ; I
have on a black velvet mask with black lace, light
gloves, and a rose with some lilies of the valley in the
bodice. It was captivating, and our appearance made a
sensation.
I was very nervous, and did not dare speak to anybody,
but a number of men surrounded us, and Tended by taking
the arm of one of them, whom I had never seen. It is very
amusing, but I think most of the people recognised ma
There ought to have been less coquetry in my get-up, but
never mind.
Three Russians fancied they knew us, and coming behind
us spoke loudly in Russian honing we should betray our-
selves ; but instead of that I made the people round us form
a circle and talk Italian. They went away, saying they were
fools, and that I was an Italian.
Enter the Duke of Cesaro.
" Whom are you looking for ? "
" A ; is he coming ? "
"Yes; in the ineanwnile stop with me . . . the most
elegant woman in the world ! "
" Oh ! there he is . . . My dear fellow, I was looking for
you."
" Bah ! but as it's for the first time I am going to hear you,
take care of your pronunciation, you lose mucn on a closer
view. Pay attention to your conversation ! "
It seems this was witty, for Cesaro and two others began
to laugh with delight. I felt sure that they knew me.
" We recognise your figure," they said to me ; " why are
you not in white ? "
" I think, upon my word, that I'm playing the part of
supernumerary, said Cesaro, seeing that we continued talking
to A .
" I think so too," I said ; " go away."
And, taking the young fop's arm, I passed through the
various rooms, taking no notice of the rest of the world.
A 's face is remarkably handsome ; he has a pale, clear
complexion, black eyes, a long, straight nose, pretty ears,
a little mouth, very passable teeth, and a moustache of
twenty-three.
I treated him as a little hypocrite, a young fop, a poor
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ROME, 1876. 57
wretch, a madman ; and he told me, with the most
serious air in the world, that he had *run away from
his father's house at nineteen; that he had plunged into
life ; that he is blase .... that he has never been in
love; &c.
" How often have you been in love ? " he asked me.
"Twice."
"Oh! oh!"
" Perhaps even more."
"How I would like to be the more"
" Young jackanapes ! . . . . Tell me why did all these
people take me for the lady in white ? "
" Well, you are like her. That's why I came with you. I
am madly m love with her."
" That isn't a very amiable speech."
" What would you have ? It's the case."
"You've been staring at her enough, in all conscience,
and she is well pleased, and poses."
" No, never. She never poses One may say what
one likes, but not that ! "
" It is easy to see you are in love."
" Yes, with you : you are like her."
" Bah ! I have a much better figure."
" No matter. Give me a flower."
I gave him a flower ; he gave me a spray of ivy instead.
His languishing airs and tones exasperate me.
" You have the look of a priest. Is it true that you will
be one ? "
He laughed.
" I hate priests. I have been a soldier."
" You ! You've only been at a seminary."
" I hate the Jesuits ; that's why I am always on bad terms
with my family."
" My dear, you are ambitious, and would like nothing
better than to have your slipper kissed."
" What an adorable little hand ! " he cried, kissing it — an
operation which he repeated several times in the course of
the evening.
" Why did you begin so badly with me?" I asked.
" Because I took you for a Roman at first, and I detest
that kind of woman." And, in fact, when I was with Cesaro,
and he proposed to sit down, A placed himself on my
left hana, and while I was talking to my cavalier he tried
to put his arm round my waist, looking most silly all the
time.
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58 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
"If you don't get rid of this little donkey," I said to
Cesaro, " I shall go away."
And he got rid of the little fool.
I have seen men only occasionally — in driving, at the
theatre, and at home. Oh dear, how aiflerent they are at a
mask ball ! They are just as attentive, tricky, and absurd
here as they look grand and reserved in their carriages.
Only Doria lost none of his dignity. Perhaps because he is
too much above human pettinesses. I left my young fool
" at least ten times, and he managed to find me again as often.
Dominica urged our going, but the young fellow
managed to detain us. At last we succeedea in securing
two easy-chairs, and then the conversation took a different
turn.
We got to talk of St. Augustine and l'Abb£ Prevost.
At last we escaped without any one following us ; for all
who had seen me in the street knew me again.
I have been amused and disenchanted.
A does not altogether please me, and yet .... Ah !
the rogue of a priest's son has carried off my glove and kissed
my left hand.
" You know/' he said, " I won't promise to carry this glove
always next to my heart — it would be silly ; but it will be a
pleasant remembrance."
We left Fortune behind, so as to make them lose the clue ;
he came back alone.
Monday, February 21s£. — I have the honour of intro-
ducing you to a madwoman. Judge for yourself. I seek, I
find, I invent a man; 1 stake my fife on him ; he becomes
part and parcel of all my sensations ; and then when my head,
open to all the winds of heaven, is full of him, it will perhaps
only bring me suffering and tears. I am far from wishing
that this should happen, but I say it by way of warning, ana
I should like to know when the true Roman carnival is to
begin. At present I have only seen balconies decorated with
white, red, blue, yellow, and pink draperies, and hardly any
masks.
Tuesday, February 23rd. — Our neighbours have arrived ;
the lady is amiable ; some of the carriages are splendid.
Troily and Giorgio have a fine carriage drawn by big horses,
and the footmen wear white breeches. It was the prettiest
carriage. They cover us with flowers. Dina blushes crimson,
and her mother beams with delight.
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ROME, 1876. 59
At last they have fired the cannon, the race is about to
begin, and A— — has not arrived; but the young man of
yesterday turns up, and, as our balconies adjoin, we begin
talking. He gives me a bouquet, I give him a camellia, and
he makes as many tender and gallant speeches as is permissible
to a gentlemanly young man when he has not had the honour
of having been introduced to a young lady. He swears
always to keep this flower, to dry it in his watch. And he
promises to come to Nice and show me the petals of the flower,
which will always keep fresh in his heart. It was very amusing.
The Count B — — (that's the name of the handsome
stranger) did not make me sad ; when, looking down on the
base crowd below,TT saw A bowing to me. Dina threw
him a bouquet, and ten arms were raised from among the
crowd to catch it flying. One of the men did so, but A ,
with the utmost coolness, seized him by the throat and held
him with his strong hands till the wretcn let go his prize. It
was so fine that A— — looked almost sublime. Full of
enthusiasm, and forgetting my blushes, I blushed again as I
threw him a camellia, the string falling with it He took it,
put it in his pocket, and disappeared. Still full of emotion,
I turned to B- , who made use of the opportunity to pay
me compliments on my Italian and heaven knows what. The
Barberi pass by with the swiftness of wind amidst the
shouts ana hisses of the populace, but on our balcony we speak
only of the fascinating way in which A repossessed him-
self of the bouquet. Keally, he looked like a hon, or a tiger,
I expected nothing of the kind from such a delicate-looking
young man.
As I said at the beginn i ng, he is a singular mixture of
languor and energy.
I can still see his clenched hands gripping the knave's
throat.
You will, perhaps, laugh at what I am going to say, but I
shall say it all the same.
By such an act a man may win a woman's love at a stroke.
He looked so calm while throttling this villain, that my heart
seemed to stop beating. Whenever they speak of it at home
I blush like a Nice rose.
Three-quarters of an hour later, when I was at the height
of my flirtation with our neighbour, I saw a valet carrying an
enormous bouquet fastened to a long pole, covered all over
with gilt paper, and apparently not sure to whom he was
to offer it, when a stick pushed against the balcony shoved it
in my direction.
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60 MARIE BASBKIBTSEFF.
It came from A——, who gave me back my camellia. I
did not understand nor see A at first, but after hesitating
for an instant, I managed to lift and take the magnificent
bouquet in my arms, smiling the while at this horrid son of a
priest.
" Oh, how splendid ! " exclaimed the English lady.
" E hello veramente" said B , a little vexed.
"It really is charming," I said, quite delighted at
heart.
And carrying my spoils, I got into the carriage, looking
once more at that dreadful son of a priest.
Having seen me take the bouquet, he bowed in his calm
way, and vanished from sight.
I can do nothing else all the evening but speak of it, and
constantly break into the conversation and speak of it again.
" Isn't A adorable ? " I say it in fun, but am rather afraid
of thinking so seriously. At present I am trying to convince
my people that I am preoccupied with A , and they won't
believe me ; but from the moment that I shall say the
opposite of what I am saying now, they will have every
Ijreason to believe me.
I have grown impatient again, and should like to sleep to
make the tune pass, and go to the balcony again.
Monday, February 28th. — When I go out on the balcony at
the Corso, I find all our neighbours at their places, and the
carnival full of animation. I look down and see the
Cardinalino and his friend on the opposite side. On seeing
him I grew confused, and blushed and rose from my seat ; but
the naughty son of a priest was no longer there, and on
turning round to mamma I saw her giving her hand to some
one — to Pietro A .
" Ah ! that's right. You have come to my balcony ; not a
bad idea."
By way of politeness, he remains some time with mamma,
and tnen sits down by me.
As before, I occupy the right corner of the balcony next
the English lady's seat. B is late ; his place is taken by
an Englishman, whom his countrywoman introduces to me,
and who is very attentive.
"What a life you are leading!" says A , in his
calm and gentle way. " You don t go to the theatre any
more."
" I was ill ; my finger still hurts me."
" Where ? " (He wanted to take hold of my hand.) " I
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have been every evening to the Apollo, you know, only
staying five minutes."
"Why?"
" Why ? " he repeated, looking me straight in the eyes.
" Yes, why ? "
" Because I went there on your account, and you were not
there."
He says a good many more things of the same kind, rolls
his eyes, and behaves in a very amusing way.
T" Give me a rose."
"What for?"
You will acknowledge that I was putting an embarrassing
question. I like to ask questions which can only be answered
foolishly, or not at all.
"Do look at that tube," I said, pointing to a horrid
creature in a long overcoat and tall hat. " If you flatten it
I will give you a rose."
Then followed a sight for the gods to see. A and
Plowden did their best to throw old bouquets at the head of
this man, who, getting animated in his turn, began aiming
them at us.
I was shielded by the Cardinalino and Plowden, and the
bouquets, I ought rather to say brooms, were falling all round.
We ended by breaking a pane of glass and a lamp. It was
very interesting.
B offers me a big basket of flowers ; he blushes and
bites his lips ; I can't think what's the matter with him. But
let us leave this tiresome creature, and turn to the eyes of
Pietro A .
He has adorable eyes, especially when he doesn't open
them too much. His eyelids partly covering the pupils, give
an expression to his eyes whicn goes to my head and makes
- my heart beat.
Sunday y March 5th. — There is a great race at the Villa
Borghese ; a man has taken a wager to go forty times round
the Place de Sienne in the Villa in an hour and twenty-five
minutes. All the world, following the lead of the charming
princess, goes to see it.
Zucchmi is there ; he makes me laugh ; Doria and many
others. This makes me think of horse races ; all these
people walking about on the grass make a very pretty
picture.
I catch sight of the Cardinalino, and turn away to speak
to Debeck, because I feel that I am blushing.
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62 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
" Good morning, Mademoiselle," he says, coming up to me.
" Good morning, Monsieur."
o There are two people who exist for me, independently of
iJ each other, Doria and A .
Doria, majestic, freezing, awe-inspiring.
A full of gaiety, coquetry, and charm.
Pietro A evidently pleases me.
I tell them I have been eating violets, and Plowden and
Cardinalino ask me for some ; I give them some from my
nosegay, and they eat them like two donkeys.
A ended by eating the threads of silk which I pulled
from my fringe.
is a charming child, his little pouting ways are
enchanting ; for example, he brings me a pack of cards and
asks me to play.
Plowden also wants to play.
" But you can't ! " cries the fiery son of a priest, opening
his eyes to their widest.
"Yes, yes, yes," I say. " Three can play together, it's all
the same."
" It's all the same ! " says he, looking at me as if he had
been pricked with a pin.
I have his voice in my ears as I am writing ; I am
very much in love with him. I say it quite naturally,
as I feel it. When he goes away I am sorry; I never
have enough of him. It's absurd to get as infatuated about
people as I do !
"Be good to B ," says Dina, "if only to torment
Pietro."
Torment ! but if I haven't the least desire for it. Torment !
excite his jealousy — fie ! In love, it's like the paint women
}>ut on their faces — it's vulgar, it's low. You may torment a
over unconsciously, naturally, so to speak ; but do it on
purpose, fie !
Moreover, I can't do it on purpose ; I haven't got sufficient
character. Is it possible to go and talk and do the amiable
with some monster of a man, when the Cardinalino is by and
one can talk to him ?
The sly rogue is courting mamma most persistently, and
she calls him ner dear child.
I like to see him so attentive to her. He complains of his
parents, who won't allow him to keep horses, because he spent
too much money when he ran away at seventeen and entered
the army. He will be twenty-three in April.
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A child in age and in character.
Monday, March 6th. — I remember yesterday, during the
race, I dropped my nosegay. A jumped down, picked it
up, and had to climb on his knees to get up again.
" What will he do to get up ? " cried Dina.
" Oh, it's very easy," I said.
"All I do is very easy," said the dear boy, dusting his
knees. " I make myself ridiculous, and it's very easy." And
he looked away to show he was piqued.
May, 1877 (Note) — Let me beg you, once for all, not to
attach too much importance to my infatuations; I did not
really think of A , as I wrote .... I idealised him to
make it more like a romance.
March — . — At three o'clock we approach the Porto del
Popolo. Debeck, Plowden, and A meet us there. A
helps me to mount, and we start.
My habit is of black cloth, and made all of a piece by
Laferriere, so that it is free from English stiffness or the
ugliness that's so common ; it is a close clinging princess
robe,
" How chic you look on horseback," says A .
Plowden bores me by trying to keep always with
me.
Pietro is anxious about mamma, who follows us in a
landau.
Once left alone with the Cardinalino, our conversation
naturally turns on love.
" Eternal love is the tomb of love," says the child : " we
must love for a day and then change."
" What a charming idea ! Is it your uncle, the Cardinal,
who taught you that ? "
"Yes," he answered, laughing.
Wretched son of a dog and a priest, I think he has
annoyed me seriously with this truth, said with his habitual
calm.
Once in the open country we begin to gallop, leap ditches,
and race like the wind. It s delicious ! He rides to perfec-
tion.
Tuesday, March 7th. — By dint of talking nonsense I have
fallen in love with this good-for-nothing. It can't be called
love ; he has given his likeness to mamma, and when he had
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64 MARIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
left I took it to my room, looked at it, found it charming, and
went to sleep dreaming of it. And I saw him in fancy, and
had so much to say to him ! . . . .
Tuesday, March 8th. — I am going to put on my riding
habit, and at four o'clock I am at the Porto del Popolo, where
the Cardinalino is waiting for me with two horses, mamma
and Dina following in the carriage.
" Let us turn this way," says my cavalier.
"Let us." And wo entered some kind of field, a green
and pleasant spot called La Farnesina. He began his declara-
tions again by saying :
" I am in despair ! "
" What is despair ? "
" It's when a man wishes to have a thing which he can't
have."
" Do you wish for the moon ? "
" No, the sim."
" Where is it ? " I said, looking at the horizon, " I think
it has set."
" No, it is there, shining on me ; it is you."
"Bah! Bah!"
" I have never loved ; I hate women ; I have only had
intrigues with light women."
"But when you saw me you loved me ?~
" Yes, at first sight, the first evening at the theatre."
" You said it was over."
" I was joking."
" How can I tell when you joke and when you are
serious ? "
" But you can see that ! "
" That's true ; we can nearly always tell when a person is
telling the truth ; but you don't inspire me with confidence,
and your fine ideas about love even less."
" What are my ideas ? I love you and you won't believe
me. Ah ! " he said, biting his lips and looking away, " then I
am nothing, and can do nothing.
" Come, act the hypocrite," said I, laughing.
" A hypocrite, always a hypocrite," he cried, turning upon
me angrily ; " is that what you think of me ? "
" And other things besides. Be quiet and listen. If one
of your friends were to pass at this instant you would look at
him and wink and laugh."
"la hypocrite ; oh, if that's so, well, well ! "
" You are torturing your horse, let us dismount."
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ROME, 1876. 65
" You don't believe that I love you ? " he said, again
trying to look me in the eyes, and stooping towards
me with an expression of sincerity that made my heart
beat.
"Well, no," I repeated, falteringly. "Rein in your horse
and let us get off."
All his tender speeches were still mixed up with precepts
of horsemanship.
" Can one help admiring you ? " said he, stopping a few
paces lower than I was, and looking at me. " You are beauti-
ful," he continued, " but I think you have no heart."
" On the contrary, I have an excellent heart, I assure
you."
" You have an excellent heart, and you won't love ! "
" That depends on circumstances."
" You are a spoilt child, are you not ? "
" Whv should I not be spoilt ? I am not ignorant, I am
good, only I am hot-tempered."
We went down the hill all the time, but at a walking pace,
for the slope was steep, and the horses kept catching m the
unevennesses of the road and the tufts of grass.
" As for me, I have a bad character, I am violent, hot-
tempered, choleric I will try and get better. . . . Let us
jump this ditch, will you ? "
"No."
And I crossed by a little bridge, while he jumped over the
ditch.
" Let us trot gently to the carriage," he said, " for we are
not going down hill any more."
I set off trotting, but when we were a few paces from the
carriage my horse oroke into a gallop. I turned to the right
A followed me, my horse took to galloping very fast ; I
tried to rein it in, but he took the bit in his teetn. TTie brute
had bolted. The plain stretched before us ; I was borne along,
all ray efforts were useless; my hair tumbled down my
shoulders, my hat fell on the ground, my strength relaxed, I
got frightened. I heard A behind me, I was conscious of
the emotion they felt in the carriage ; I felt inclined to jump
down, but the horse went like an arrow. How stupid to be
killed like this ! I thought. I had no strength left ; they must
save me !
"Hold him in!" cried A , who could not catch
me up.
" I can't," I said in a low voice.
My arms were trembling. In another instant I should
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66 MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF.
have fainted, when he came up with ine, hit the horse across
the head with his whip, and I seized hold of his arm as
much to keep myself from falling as to touch him.
I looked at him ; he was deadly pale. I never saw any
one so upset.
" Heavens ! " he exclaimed, " what a fright you have given
me!"
" Oh yes, I should have fallen but for you ; I could no
longer hold him in. Now it's over .... Very nice, to be
sure," I added, trying to laugh. "Will somelxnly give me
my hat?"
Dina had got out, and we went to the landau. Mamma
was quite beside herself, but she said nothing. She knew
something was the matter, and did not want to annoy
me.
" We will go gently, at a walk, to the door."
" Yes, yes.*
" But what a fright you have given me ! And you, were
you frightened ? "
" No, not at all, I assure you."
" Oh yes, I can see it."
" It's nothing, nothing at alL"
And & .minute later we began conjugating the verb "to
love" in all its tenses. He tells me everything from the
beginning, since the first evening he saw me at the opera,
when, seeing Rossi coming out of our box, he left his own
to meet him.
" You know," he said, " I have never loved any one, my
only affection was for my mother, all the rest ! .... I never
looked at any one in tne theatre, I never went to the Pincio.
It's folly, all that, I laughed at those who went, and now I go
there myself."
"Forme?"
" For you. I am obliged." ....
"Obliged?"
"Morally. No doubt I could make an impression on
your imagination if I rehearsed a declaration in the style
of novels ; but it's foolish ; I only think of you, I only live
for you. Of course man is a material being, he meets a
lot of people, and a lot of other thoughts preoccupy him.
He eats, he talks, he thinks of other things; but I often
think of you in the evening."
" Perhaps at your club ? "
" Yes, at the club. When night comes on I remain to
dream ; I smoke, and think of you. Especially when I am
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alone at dusk I think and dream, and the illusion is such that
I fancy you are there. Never, he added, have I felt anything
like it before. I think of you, I go out to see you. The
best proof is that as you no longer go to the opera I don't
go either. It's chiefly when I am alone that I dream. I
ficture to myself that you are present. I assure you that
have never felt what I feel now, from which, I suppose,
that it must be love. I desire to see you ; I go to the
Pincio ; I long to see you, and get quite wild, and then 1
picture you to myself. This is how I began to feel the
pleasure of loving."
" How old are you ? "
" Three-and-twenty. I began life at seventeen. I might
have fallen in love a hundred times, but I never did. I have
never been like those fellows of eighteen, who make a fuss
over a flower or a portrait, that's so stupid. If you knew,
I sometimes think that I have so much to say and,
and "
" And you can't ? "
'• No, tnat isn't it. I'm in love, and grow stupid."
" Don't think so, you are not at all stupid."
" You don't love me," he said, turning round.
" I know you so little," I replied, " that it's impossible
to telL"
" But when you know me better," said he, gently, looking
at me in quite a timid way (and then he lowered his voice),
" perhaps you will love me a little ? "
" Perhaps," I said, softly.
It was almost night when we arrived. I got into the
carriage. He goes to mamma, making many excuses, and
she gives him a few recommendations about the horses for
the next time, and we separate.
" A u plai&ir de nans revoir / " says A to
mamma.
I give him my hand in silence, and he presses it, not as
formerly.
" I laiow all about it ! " exclaims Dina. " He said something
to her, she checked him, he set his horse off and that's how it
happened."
"True, my dear, he really said a lot of things to
me."
" All goes well ? " asks Dina.
" Swimmingly, my dear," I say, complacently.
*""" I come in, undress, put on a dressing-gown and lie down
on the sofa, tired, fascinated, bewildered. I did not take
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68 MARIE BA8HKIRT8EFF.
it in at first, I forgot everything for two hours, and it required
two hours to recollect what you have just been reading. My
joy would be complete if I auite believed him, but I have my
doubts in spite of nis candia, charming, and even naive looks.
That comes of being a knave at heart oneself. Moreover, it's
Lbetter so.
I leave my note-book ten times over, in order to lie down
on my bed and passing it all over again in my poor head, to
dream of it and to smile.
Behold, good people, I am thoroughly upset, and he is no
doubt at his club.
I feel quite different, quite stupid. I am calm, but still
bewildered by what he tola me. I also remember his saying
that he was ambitious.
Every well-born man ought to be, I replied.
I like the way he spoke to me. No rhetoric, no affecta-
tion, you saw that he was thinking aloud. He said some very
pretty things to me, as for example : " You always look
pretty," he said, " I can't think how you manage it."
"My hair is all undone."
" So much the better, you look even nicer so, with your
hair loose, you are still more. . . . you are." (He stopped and
smiled.) " You are all the more, I don't know how to express
it. . . . more ravishing."
I am now thinking of the time when he said, " I love you,"
and when I had replied, " It's not true." He shook himself
in the saddle, and stooping while he allowed the reins to drop
from his hand : " You don't believe me," he cried, trying to
look me in the eyes, which I dropped. (Not from coquetry,
I swear it.) Oh, he spoke the truth at that moment. I
raised my head and caught his troubled look ; his wide-open,
dark-brown eyes, which were trying to read my thoughts
to the bottom of my soul. They were troubled, irritated,
vexed, by my averted looks. I did not do it on purpose ; if I
had looked him in the face I should have begun crying. I
was nervous, confused, and didn't know what to do, and
he may have thought that I was acting from coquetry.
Yes, at least at that moment I knew that he was not
¥ n g-
" You love me at present," I replied, " but in a week you
will love me no longer."
" Oh, have pity ! I am not one of those men who pass
their lives in flirting withyoung ladies ; I have never courted
any one, I love no one. Tliere is a woman who is doing all in
her power to make me fall in love with her. She has given
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me six or seven rendezvous, I have always missed them,
because, you see, I can't love her."
But enough, I shall never finish if I call up all my
memories and write them down. So many things were
said!
Come, come, you must go to sleep.
Tuesday, March lUh. — I think I promised Pietro to go
out for a ride. We meet him in walking dress and billycock ;
the poor child was in a fiacre.
" Why don't you ask your father to give you horses ? "
I said.
" I have asked, but if you only knew how close the
A 's are."
I was vexed to see him in a wretched fiacre.
To-day we leave the Hdtel de Londres, we have taken a
large and handsome appartenient on the first storey of the
hotel on the Via Babino — ante-room, little salon, salon,
four bed-rooms, studio, and servants' room.
March IQth. — Pietro came about ten o'clock. The salon
is very large and very handsome ; we have two pianos, a
grand and a smaller one. I began softly playing one of
Mendelssohn's " Songs without Words," and A began
singing his ballad. The more fire and passion he put into it
the more I laughed and the colder I got.
I find it impossible to imagine A really in earnest.
Whatever the beloved one may say appears adorable;
people to whom I am quite indifferent sometimes find me
amusing, how much more those to whom I am not so. In
the middle of a sentence full of tenderness I said something
irresistibly funny to him, and he began laughing. Then I
reproached him for laughing, saying I couldn't believe a child
who was never serious and who laughed at everything like
mad. And I did this several times till he got exasperated.
Then he began telling me how it had begun, since the first
evening when the Vestalc was performed.
" I love you so much that 1 would do anything for you,"
he said. " Tell me to shoot myself with two pistol shots, and
I will do so."
" And what would your mother say ? "
"My mother would cry, and my brothers would say,
4 Instead of being three we are now two.' "
" It's useless, I don't want proofs of that kind."
".But what would you like in that case ? Tell me ; would
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70 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
you like me to jump out of the window into the fountain
below ? "
And he rushed to the window ; I held him back, and he
wouldn't let go my hand.
" No," he said, swallowing something like a tear. " I am
calm at present, but a moment ago — heavens ! don't put me
in such a rage again. Answer me ; say something."
" Oh, that's mere nonsense ! "
" Yes, I may have committed youthful follies ; but I
don't believe I ever felt like to-day — at this very moment.
I thought I was going out of my mind."
" In a month I shall be going away, and it will all be
*orgotten."
" I will follow you everywhere."
" They won't permit it,"
" Ana who is to prevent me ! " he exclaimed, rushing
towards me.
" You are too young," I said, beginning to play something
else, and passing from Mendelssohn to a softer and deeper
nocturne.
"Let us get married ; we have a splendid future before us."
" Yes, if I wished it."
" Ah ! no doubt you wish it."
Then he walked up and down, getting more excited. I did
not even change colour.
r " Well," I said, " supposing I were to get married to you,
L and you left off loving me after two years.'
I thought he would have choked.
" No. What makes you think these things ?"
And breathing hard, with tears in his eyes, he fell at my
feet
I drew back, reddening in my anger. O protecting piano !
" You must have a very good temper," he said.
" I should think so indeed, or I would already have turned
you out," I answered, turning away to laugh.
Then I got up calm and contented, and went to act the
hostess to tne other guests.
But it was time to £0 away.
" Is it time ? " he asked, looking at me inquiringly.
" Yes," answered mamma.
Having given a very short account of the interview to
mamma and Dina, I went and shut myself ut> in my room,
and before beginning to write, I remain an hour with my
hands over my face, and fingers pushed through my hair, still
trying to unravel my own feelings.
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I think I begin to understand myself?
'Poor Pietro, it isn't that I have no feeling for him,
quite the contrary ; but I cannot consent to become his
wifa*
Tne riches, the villas, the museums of the Ruspoli, the
Doria, the Torlonia, the Borghese, the Chiara, would crush me.
I am, above all things, vain and ambitious, and to think one
should love such a creature simply because he does not know
her. If he really knew her. ... Ah ! well ! he would love
her all the same.
Ambition is a noble passion.
Why the devil must it be A instead of some one
else?
I am always repeating the same phrase, while I change the
name.
Saturday, March 18th. — I have never had a moment's
tete-A-tdte with A and it annoys me. Tlike to hear him
say that he loves me. Since he has told me everything,
I sit thinking, thinking, with my elbows on the table.
Perhaps I am m love. It's chiefly when I am tired and half
asleep that I think I am in love with Pietro. Why am I
vain ? Why am I ambitious ? Why am I so reasonable ?
I am incapable of sacrificing years of grandeur and satisfied
vanity to a few moments of pleasure.
" Yes," says the novelist, " but this moment of pleasure is
enough to illumine a lifetime with its rays ! "
On no. To-day I am cold, and I am in love ; to-morrow
I shall be hot, and shall not be in love. On such changes of
temperature does man's fate depend !j
A says " Good evening," on going away, and takes
my hand, which he keeps in his own, asking me ten questions
to prolong the time.
I told it all to mamma as soon as he was gone. I tell her
everything.
March 20th. — I behaved very foolishly this evening.
I spoke in a low voice to the creature, and so gave rise to
all kinds of suppositions which will never be justified. He
does not amuse me when other people are present ; when we
two are alone he speaks of love and marriage. The son of a
priest is jealous, is even fiercely jealous — of wnom ? Of all the
world.
I listen to his speeches from the height of my cold
indifference, allowing him at the same time to take hold of
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72 MAJIIE BASHKIBTSEFF.
my hand. I take his hand in my turn with almost a ma-
ternal air, and if he is not yet driven out of his senses by
his paxsion for me, as he assures me, he must see that while I
drive him away with my words I hold him back with my
eyes.
And while I say that I shall never love him, I do love him
all the same ; or, at least, I behave as if I did. I tell him all
kinds of foolish things. Some one else — older than he — would
be satisfied ; but he tears a napkin in pieces, breaks two
brushes, and destroys a canvas. All these doings make it
necessary for me to take hold of his hand and call him
a fooL
Then he gazes at me with a fierce, fixed kind of look, and
his black eyes seem to lose themselves in my grey ones. I
say to him, without a smile — " Make a face ; " then he laughs,
and I pretend to be angry.
" Then you don't love me ? "
" No ! "
" Must I give up all hope then ? "
"Dear me, no. One must never lose hope; hope is
implanted in man's breast ; but, as far as I am concerned, I
won't give you any."
And as I spoke laughingly, he went away tolerably
satisfied.
Friday, March 24th ; Saturday, March 25th. — A-
arrived a quarter of an hour earlier than usual; pale,
interesting, sad, and calm.
Scarcely had Fortune announced him, than I armed
myself from head to foot in cold drawing-room politeness
calculated to madden people under the circumstances.
I let him spend ten minutes with mamma. Poor creature ;
he is jealous of Plowden ! . . . . How unbecoming it is to be
in love !
We parted coldly from one another.
" I had sworn never to come to you again."
" Why did you come ? "
" I was afraid of being rude to your mother, who is so
kind."
" If that is all you can go away and never come back.
Good-bye ! "
" No, no, no ; it is for yourself."
" Then that is another matter."
" Mademoiselle, I have been much in the wrong,"
said he, " I know."
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" What wrong ? "
"The wrong of letting you understand, of telling you
that ....
" That ? "
" That I love you," added he, compressing his lip like a
man who is trying not to weep.
" Ta, ta, ta, that is not wropg."
" It is a great and immense wrong, for you play with me
as you would with a doll or a ball"
" What an idea ! "
"Oh, I know, I know, you are like that You
are fond of playing. Well, then, go on playing ; it is my
fault"
" Let us play."
" Then, tell me ; it was not for the sake of giving me my
dismissal that you told me to go oft* to the theatre ? "
"No." ' *
" It is not to get rid of me ? "
" Ah, Monsieur, I do not need any ruse when I want to
get rid of any one ; I do it quite straightforwardly, as I did
with B ."
" Ah ! and you told me that that was not true."
" Let us talk about something else." He leant his cheek
against my hand.
" You love me ? " he asked.
" No, Monsieur ; not the least in the world." He does not
believe a word of it.
At that moment Dina and mamma came in, and after a
few minutes he was obliged to go.
Monday, March 27th. — In the evening we had some
visitors. Among others A .
I am at the piano again. .... "I know," said he, " the
sort of man who would have a chance with you. One who
has much less patience and who loves you much less. But
you ; you do not love me ! "
" No," I say once more.
And our faces were so near each other that I wonder no
spark was struck out.
" You see ! " he exclaimed. " What is to be done
when one only is in love ? You are as cold as snow ; and I,
I love you ! "
"You love me! no, Monsieur; but you may do so
yet"
When? 1
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74 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
" In six months."
" Oh ! in six months from now I love you. I am
mad, and you are laughing at me."
"Truly, Monsieur, you are a good hand at guessing.
Listen. Even if I did love you, it would be difficult. I am
too young. And then there's the question of religion."
"Oh, l know that well enough ! I should have difficulties
too ; do you suppose I should not ? . . . . You can't under-
stand me, because you don't love me. But, if I asked you
to run away with me? "
"Dreadful!"
" Wait .... I am not proposing it. It is dreadful, I
know, when people do not love. It would not be dreadful if
you loved me."
" I do not love you."
I do not love him, and I let him say all these things to
me. It's absurd !
I believe he has spoken to his father, and not received
a favourable hearing. I can't make up my mind ; I
have no notion what sort of conditions they would make ;
and nothing in the world would induce me to go and
live in a family. My own is quite enough for me. What
would it be with strangers ! Am I not very sensible for
my age ? "
" I will follow you," he said the other night.
" Come to Nice," I said to him to-day.
He did not answer, and kept his head cast down, which
proves to me that he has spoken to his father.
I can't make myself out. I love and yet I don't.
Wednesday, March 29£A. — I said that A had not yet
trampled everything under foot for me.
" I love you," he said to me ; "I will do anything
for you ! "
"The Pope will curse you, the Cardinal will curse you,
and your father will curse you."
"Much do I care for all those people when you are in
?uestion ! I don't care a hang for any one. If you loved as
do you would say the same. If your passion for me
were like mine for you, you would not speak as you do,
and you would see in the whole world only the one you
love!"
Ah ! Pietro is not an " insignificant young man ! " He is
developing more and more; and I am beginning to feel a
certain respect for him.
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ROME, 1876. 75
Tltur8day } March 30th. — To-day, alone in my room with
the door locked, I am going to meditate on the important
matter.
For some days my position has been a false one, and why
so ? Because Pietro has asked me to be his wife ; because I
did not refuse roundly ; because he has spoken to his parents
about it ; because his parents are not easy to lead ; and be-
cause Visconti spoke as follows to mamma :
"You must know, madame, where you wish to marry
your daughter ? " began Visconti, after having praised Pietro's
fortune and person.
" I have no fixed idea," said mamma ; " and, besides, my
daughter is so young ! "
" No, madame, it is best to say things plainly. Do you
want to marry her abroad or in Russia ? "
"I should, prefer abroad; because I think she will be
happier abroad, as she has been brought up there."
" Well, then, you must also know, if all your family would
consent to see her married to a Catholic, and to see the
children that spring from this union brought up in the
Catholic religion."
" Our family would be glad to see anything which would
secure the happiness of my daughter."
" And what would be the relations of your family with
the family of the husband ? "
" Well, I think they would be on excellent terms ; the more
so as the two families would seldom or never see each other."
" Pierre A is a charming young man, who will be very
rich ; but the Pope meddles in all the affairs of the A 's,
and the Pope will make difficulties."
" But, Monsieur, why do you say all that ? There is no
question of marriage. I love this young man as a child, but
not as a future son-in-law."
This is pretty well all that my mother could remember.
It would be very prudent to go away, the more so as
nothing would be lost by putting it off till next winter.
We must go away to-morrow ; and I am going to prepare
for it — that is to say, go and see the wonders ot Rome that
I have not yet seen.
"Yes, but what annoys me is that the opposition comes
not from our side, but from the A 's. That is unpleasant,
and my pride rebels against it.
Let us leave Rome.
Truly it is not very pleasant that they should be making
^difficulties about me, when it's I who object to them.
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76 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Rome is such a gossipy place that ©very one talks about
this ; and I am the last to notice it. That is always the
way.
Certainly, I am furious at the idea of their wanting to
take Pietro away from me ; but I look further for myself,
and aim at something higher, thank goodness! If A
were in harmony with the programme, I should not be angry ;
but a man whom in my mind I have rejected as unsatis-
factory! And they to dare to say the Pope xvould not
allow it ! *
I am furious ; but wait a minute.
Evening comes, and with the evening Pietro A .
We receive him with some coldness, in consequence
of Baron Visconti's words, and a number of suppositions ;
for, since that speech of Visconti's we do nothing but
suppose.
I " To-morrow," said Pietro, after a few moments, " I am
going away."
"Where?"
" To Terracina ; I shall stay there a week, I fancy.
"They are sending him away," whispered mamma in
Russian.
I agreed, but what an insult! I shall weep with
ra £ e -
"Yes, it is disagreeable," I answered in the same
way.
Oh ! you wretch of a priest ! You know well enough how
humiliating it is.
The conversation was affected by it. Mamma is so offended,
so angry, that her headache grows twice as bad, and she has
to be taken to her room. Cina retires tirst. There was a
tacit agreement to leave me alone with him that I
might find out the truth.
As soon as we were alone, I made a bold attack, though I
trembled a little.
" Why are you going ? Where are you going ? " Ah ! well,
if you think he answered me as straightforwardly as I
questioned him, you are mistaken.
I asked questions, and he avoided answering them.
" What is your motto, Mademoiselle ? " asked he.
" Nothing before me, nothing after me, nothing beside
me!"
" Well, mine is the same."
U* So much the worse."
Then began protestations so true as to become distorted.
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ROME, 1876. 77
Words of love without beginning or end, bursts of anger and
reproaches. I submitted to this storm with calmness and
dignity.
" I love you to distraction," he went on, " but I have no
confidence in you. You have always made fun of me and
laughed; cross-examining me coldly as if you were a judge.
What do you want me to say when I see that you will never
love me ?
I listened stiffly, and without moving a muscle, not al-
lowing him to touch my hand even. I wanted to understand
clearly at any price ; 1 was too unhappy in this uncertainty
mingled with a million suspicions.
" But, Monsieur, you expect me to love a man whom I
do not know, who hides everything from me ! Speak, and
I will believe you; speak, and I promise to give you an
answer. Listen to me, after that I promise to give you an
answer. ,,
" But you will laugh at me, Mademoiselle, if I tell you.
You must understand that it is an absolute secret. If I tell
it, I shall reveal myself entirely to you. There are things
ot so private a nature that we cannot tell them to any-
body."
" Speak, I am waiting."
" I will tell you, but you will laugh at me."
" I swear I will not."
After I had promised many times not to laugh and not
to tell any one, he told me at last.
Last year, when a soldier at Vicenza, he got into
debt, to the amount of thirty-four thousand francs, and since
his return home, about ten months ago, a coolness has
arisen between him and his father, who refused to pay.
At last, a few days ago, he made a pretence of leaving
home, saying that he was too badly treated there. Then
his mother came to tell him that his father would pay
his debts on condition that he would lead a respectable life.
" And to make a beginning, before being reconciled to your
parents, you ought to be reconciled to God." He has not
oeen to confession for a long while.
In short, he is going for a week's retreat in the con-
vent of San Giovanni e Paolo, at Monte Ccelio, near the
Coliseum,
I assure you I found it hard work to keep serious ; to us
this seems comic, but it is quite natural for the Catholics in
Rome.
" So this is the secret."
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78 MARIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
I leaned against the mantelpiece and the chair, turning
away my eyes, which were full of tears, goodness knows why.
He leaned at my side, and we remained for some seconds
without speaking or looking at one another. We remained
standing for an hour, talkng of what ? Of love, no doubt.
I knew all I wanted to know, I have got it all out of
him.
He has not spoken to his father, but he has told his
mother everything ; he has mentioned me.
" At any rate, Mademoiselle," said he, " you may be sure
that my parents have no fault to find with you ; it is only a
matter of religion."
" I am quite aware that they have no fault to find with
me, for if I consented to marry you, it is you who would be
honoured, not I."
I am careful to appear as stern and prudish as I really am,
and to set forth moral principles of overwhelming purity, so
that he may tell his mother all, since he does tell her every-
thing.
He never spoke to me before as he did to-night.
" I love you ; I adore you ; I am mad," he said,
very softly and quickly. " Do you love me a little ?
Speak!"
" And if I love you, what good will it do ?
"It will make us happy, surely ! "
" I cannot make up my mmd. You know there are
fathers and mothers."
" Mine have no objection to make, Mademoiselle ; you
may take my word for it. Let us be engaged."
" Not so fast, Monsieur. What dia you say to your
mother ? How did you speak to her ? "
" I said to her : ' You were so very anxious that I should
marry ; I have found some one whom I love ; I wish to marry
and lead a respectable life.' And my mother answered that I
ought to thinlc the matter over carefully before taking so
serious a step, and all sorts of things."
" That is quite natural. And have you spoken to your
father ? "
" No."
" I ask that because people in the town are talking about
it, and they have spoken to mamma, who has been very much
vexed about it."
No doubt my mother has spoken to him. It is past two
o'clock, and I should never finisn writing if I were to set down
only half. And then it is so silly, one can only write hard
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ROME, 1876. 79
things, soft things cannot be written, and they are the only
things that are amusing to read.
Sunday, at two o'clock, I shall be in front of the convent,
and he will appear at the window and wipe his face with some
white linen.
Next I run to allay mamma's wounded pride, and to tell
her everything, but laughing all the time so as not to seem in
love.
Enough for the moment. I am cal,m, happy ; especially
happy in presence of my family, who had already put on a
dejected mien.
It is late ; I really must go to sleep.
Friday, March 31st. — It was a splendid proof of love to tell
me what he did ; I did not laugh. He begged me to give
him my likeness to take with him to the convent.
" Never, Monsieur. What a temptation ! "
" I shall think of you all the same the whole time."
How absurd that week at the convent seems ! What
would his friends at the Caccia Club say if they knew of it ?
I shall never tell any one ; Marie and Dina don't count,
they will be as silent as I am. Pietro in a convent, that will
be a joke ! What if he has invented it all ? What a terrible
character to have ! I have no faith in any one.
Poor Pietro in a monk's frock, shut up in a cell, four
sermons a day, a mass, vesper, matins ; I cannot get used to
believing anything so ridiculous.
God, do not punish a vain creature ! I swear that I
am honest at heart, incapable of cowardice or baseness. I am
ambitious — that is my misfortune !
The beauty and the ruins of Rome intoxicate me ; I want
to be Caesar, Augustus, Marcus Aurelius, Caracalla, the devil,
the Pope !
1 want — and I am nothing.
But I am always the same ; you may convince yourself
of it by reading my Journal. The details and the shades
change, but the main lines are always the same.
A nice thing to be shut up in a convent ! He must be
very dull, poor fellow ! I was burning to tell my family about
this ; I am unworthy of confidence, but I could not do other-
wise. Mamma was furious.
" What," said she, " they threaten to refuse us, when we do
not want them ? They dare to think it would be such a piece
of good fortune for us ! How insulting 1 "
H
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80 MARIE BA8HKIRT8EFF.
She was auite right, was my mother. Well, I had to
soothe her ana re-establish myself in her eyes.
Indidgentia plenaria perpetita pro vivis et defunct is.
Amen.
Ajrril 3rd. — It is spring now ; they say that all women
grow more beautiful at this season ; that is true, if I am to
judge by myself. .... The skin becomes liner, the eyes
brignter, the carnation fresher.
It is the 3rd of April ; I have another fortnight of Rome
before me.
How strange it is ! As long as I wore a felt hat, it was
winter ; yesterday I put on a straw hat, and it is spring
directly. A dress or a hat often gives this impression, just as
a word or gesture may hasten on an event which has long
been preparing, but which did not seem to have come into
existence, and needed this little impulse.
Wednesday, April 5th. — I write and speak about all the
people who make love to me. An absurd thing to do ; caused
oy sheer want of occupation. I paint and read, but that's
not enough.
A vain creature like me must stick to painting, for that is
imperishable work.
I shall not be a poet, a philosopher, or a savant e. I can
only be a singer or a painter.
That's something at least. And then I want to be in the
fashion ; that is the chief thing.
Do not shake your heads at me, stern judges; do not
criticise me with affected indifference. Be more just, and
remember that you are the same at heart. You are careful
not to show it ; but that does not prevent you from knowing
in your inmost heart that I am speaking the truth.
Vanity ! Vanity ! Vanity !
The beginning and end of eyerything, and the sole and
eternal cause of everything.
Whatever does not spring from vanity springs from our
passions. Passion and vanity are the sole masters of the
world.
Thursday, April 6th. — I have come to my Journal,
begging it to comfort my empty, sad, foiled, envious, unhappy
heart.
Yes ; I, with all my impulses, all my immense desires
and my fever of life, I am always and everywhere stopped
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ROME, 1876. 81
like a horse by the bit. It foams, rages and rears, but it is
stopped all the same.
Friday, April 7th. — I am wretched. How true is that
Russian expression — " To have a cat in one's heart." It is
true there is a cat in my heart It is always inexpressibly
difficult for me to believe that a man whom 1 like snould be
capable of not loving me.
Pietro has not come. It is only this evening he leaves the
convent. I have seen his clerical and hypocritical brother
Paul A . He is a creature to be stamped on — a little,
black, yellow, .base, hypocritical Jesuit !
If the story of the convent is true, he must know it,
and how he must laugh at it with his little mysterious
manner ; how he must tell it to his friends ! Peter and Paul
cannot endure one another.
Sunday, April 9th. — I have been to confession, and taken
the Communion with fervent faith, my heart full of emotion,
and my soul in a fitting state. Mamma and Dina went too •
then we attended mass. I listened to every word, and I
prayed.
Is it not maddening to be subjected to a power that is
unknown and incontestable ? I speak of the power that has
carried off* Pietro. What is there impossible to the Cardinal,
when it is a question of giving orders to the ecclesiastics ?
The power of the priests is immense, it is impossible to
penetrate their mysterious machinations.
It fills one witn wonder, fear, and admiration. One need
only read the history of nations to see their hand in every
event. Their sight is so far-reaching that it is lost in space
for less accustomed eyes.
Since the beginning of the world, in every country, the
supreme power has belonged to them, openly or secretly.
No, listen ; it would be too much if, all of a sudden, in
that way they were to take away Pietro from us for ever ! It
is impossible that he should not return to Rome, he had
promised so faithfully to come !
Does he make no attempt to return ? Does he not smash
everything ? Doesn't he cry out ?
I have been to confession ; I have received absolution and
I swear and rage.
Man needs a certain allowance of sin, just as much as he
needs a certain allowance of air for living.
H 2
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82 MARIE BASHKIRT8EFF.
Why do men remain attached to the earth ? Why does
the weight of their conscience fasten them to it ? Ii their
conscience were pure they would be too light, and would fly
up to Heaven like fire balloons.
A strange theory that ! Never mind.
And Pietro does not come back.
But since I do not love him ! I want to be sensible and
calm, and I cannot.
It is the Pope's blessing and portrait that have brought
me ill-luck.
He is said to bring ill-luck.
There is a sort of strange whistling in my chest ; my nails
are red ; and I cough.
There's nothing more horrible than to be unable to pray ;
prayer is the only consolation of those who cannot act. 1
pray, but I do not believe. It is abominable. It is not
my fault.
Monday, April 10th. — They have shut him up for ever.
No, they have shut him up for the time of my stay at
Rome.
To-morrow I shall go to Naples, they can't foresee this
trick. And, once he is free, he will go in search of
me.
It is not that which I am anxious about, but the present
uncertainty, this unforeseen, unexpected blow.
I walk about my room uttering low groans, like a
wounded wolf.
I still have the branch of ivy he gave me at the Capitol.
What misery !
I really do not know what is the matter with me ; no
doubt it is absurd, but so it is.
Besides, it is silly to grow angry, to pray, to weep. Is
it always so in everything? I ought to be accustomed
to it, and no longer weary Heaven by my useless lamen-
tations.
I know not what to make of him. Is he a worth-
less fellow, a coward, or only a child who is tyrannised
over ?
I am extremely calm, but sad. You have only to look
at things from a certain point of view, says mamma, to find
that nothing in this world is worth troubling about.
I am quite of one mind with my mother, but to agree
with her more completely, I must know for certain. All
I know is that it is an odd adventure,
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ROME, 1876. 83
Wednesday, April 12th. — During the whole of this night 1
have been seeing him in my dreams. He was assuring me
that he had really been at the convent.
We are packing and starting for Naples this evening.
I hate going !
When shall I have the happiness of living in my own
home, always in the same town, and always seeing the same
society, and travelling now and then for change ?
Rome is the place where I should choose to live, love,
and die.
No, I will tell you — I should like to live where I was
happy, love everywhere, and die nowhere.
Yet, I like Italian, or rather Roman, life well enough ,
it still retains a slight tinge of antique magnificence.
People often have false impressions of Italy and the
Italians.
They imagine them poor, designing, in a state of decline.
It is quite the contrary. You seldom find such wealthy
families and such luxuriously appointed houses in other
countries. Of course, I am speaking of the aristocracy.
Under the Pope, Rome was a city by itself, and in its
way sovereign of the world. Then every Roman prince was
like a petty king, had his court and his clients as in
ancient times. From this rigvme springs the grandeur of
the Roman families. Truly, in two generations, tnere will be
neither grandeur nor riches, for Rome is subject to royal
laws, ana will become just like Naples, Milan, and the otner
cities of Italy.
Great fortunes will be split up ; museums and galleries
bought by the Government; and the princes of Rome
transformed into a number of petty people, covered with a
great name as with an old theatrical cloak to hide their needs.
And when these great names, so much respected formerly,
shall be dragged in the mud ; when the king shall determine
to be great alone, after trampling all the nobility under his
feet, he will see clearly enough in one moment what a country
is where there is nothing between the people and its king.
Just look at France !
But look at England : there is liberty, there is happiness.
You will say, " But there is so much misery in England."
Still, on the whole, the English people are the happiest. I
do not speak of its commercial prosperity, but only of its
inner life.
Let him who desires a Republic in his country begin by
having one in his own house!
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84 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFh'.
Enough discussion of matters of which I have but
a very slight comprehension and a merely personal
opinion.
What will Pietro say when he comes back to Rome and
does not find me there ? He will howl with rage. So much
the worse ; it is not my fault.
Naples, Thursday, April 13th. — See Naples and then die.
I desire neither the one nor the other.
It is seven o'clock. It is as fine as at Nice. I see splendid
carriages passing my window, such as there are but few of at
Rome.
Naples is famous for the splendour of its horses and
carriages.
Did he go of his own accord, or did they make him go ?
That is the question.
I am writing in front of a large looking-glass. I look like
Beatrice Cenci : it is pretty, a white dress, and my hair let
down ! I do it now in the Pompeian style, as Pietro used
to say.
Oh ! how I should like one of Dumas' novels ! That
would save me from writing nonsense, and what is more, from
reading it afterwards.
I have locked myself in, and wept several times ; it is just
the same as at Rome. Oh, how I hate change ! how wretched
I am in a new town !
They have commanded, he has obeyed, and to do so he
must have loved me but little.
He did not obey when it was a question of military service.
Enough, enough ; for shame !
The misery, fie, the meanness ! I can no longer suffer my
thoughts to dwell on such a man. If I complaiv, it is for
my nnhuppy fate, my po<rr life hardly begun, during which
I have had nothing but disajrpointments !
I have sinned, no doubt, like all mankind, perhaps even
more than others ; but still there is some good in me, and it
is unjust to humiliate me in everything.
I placed myself in the middle of the room, folding
my hands, and raising my eves, and something tells me
that prayer is useless, I shall have whatever is in store for
me.
Not one sorrow the less, not one grief the more, as
Monseigneur de Falloux says.
There's only one thing to be done: to be resigned. I
know well enough that it is difficult, good God, but else where
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NAPLES, 1876. 85
would be the merit ? . . . Yet, fool that I am, I believe
that the bursts of a frantic faith and of ardent prayers can do
something !
God requires a German resignation, and I am incapable
of it.
Does He believe that those who thus resign themselves
have to overcome themselves ?
Oh dear no ! They resign themselves because they have
water in their veins instead of blood, because it gives them
less trouble.
Is it a virtue to be calm when this calmness is in one's
nature ? If I could be resigned, I should obtain everything,
for it would be sublime. But I cannot. It is no longer a
difficulty, it is an impossibility. In moments of callousness
I shall be resigned, not by my own free will, but because I
shall be resigned.
O God, take pity on me, give me calmness ! Fashion me
a soul I can cleave to. I am weary, very weary. No, no, I
am not weary of storms, but of disappointments !
April 13th. — I have opened the window to air my room,
which was full of smoke. For the first time for three long
months I have seen a clear sky and the sea through the
trees, the sea illumined by the night. I am so delighted that
I am going to write. Ah ! how beautiful it is after the
black, narrow streets of Rome ! A night so calm, so beautiful!
Ah ! if he were here !
If you fancy that is love !
It is impossible to sleep when it is so beautifuL Timid,
weak, unworthy ! unworthy of the least of my thoughts !
Easter Sunday, April 16th. — Naples does not please me.
At Rome the houses are black and dirty, but they are palaces
as regards architecture and antiquity. At Naples there is
^ , ust as much dirt, and you see only cardboard houses in the
French style.
There, how angry all the French people would be. Let
them be calm. I admire and love them more than any other
nation, but I must confess that their palaces will never attain
the massive, splendid, and graceful majesty of the Italian
palaces, especially those at Rome and Florence.
Tuesday, April 18th. — At midday we set out for Pompeii.
We drove there, as the road is a nne one, and gives views
of Vesuvius and the towns of Castellainare and Sorrento.
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86 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
The excavations are splendidly managed. It is a strange
thing to traverse the streets of this dead city.
We had taken a sedan chair, and mainnia and I rested
in it in turns.
The skeletons are frightful ; the unfortunate wretches
are in the most cruel attitudes. I looked at the remains
of the houses and the frescoes, and tried to fill them
up in my imagination, and re-people those houses and
streets.
What a terrible force is that which could swallow up a
whole city !
T heard mamma talking marriage.
" The wife is bound to suffer/ said she, " even with the
best of husbands."
"The wife before marriage," say I, "is Pompeii before
the eruption; and the wife after marriage is Pompeii after
the eruption."
tEerhaps I am right !
I am very tired, worried, vexed. We did not get back
till eight o'clock.
Wednesday, April 19th. — This is the disadvantage of my
positioa Pietro, without me, has his club, his friends,
and the world — everything, in short, except me; while, as
for me, without Pietro I have nothing. I am only an object
of luxury for him. He was everything to me. He made me
forget my anxiety to play a part in the world ; and I did not
think of it, being only occupied with him — too glad to
escape from my thoughts.
Whatever becomes of me, I bequeath my Journal to the
public.
All the books we read are inventions — the situations are
forced, the characters false ; while this is the photograph of
a whole life. " Ah ! " you will say, " this photograph is tedious,
while the inventions are amusing." If you say that, you will
give me a very poor idea of your intelligence.
I offer you that which has never yet been seen. All the
memoirs, all the journals, all the letters that are published,
are only inventions intended to deceive the world.
I have no interest in deceiving it. I have no political
action to conceal, nor criminal relation to hide. i^o one
cares whether I love or do not love — whether I cry or laugh.
My chief anxiety is to express myself as accurately as
possible. I have no illusions about my style or my ortho-
graphy. I write letters without mistakes ; but amid this
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NAPLES, 1876. 87
ocean of words, no doubt I let a good many slip in. Besides,
I make mistakes in my French. I am a foreigner ; but ask
me to express myself in my own language, I should probably
do it still worse.
But it was not to say all this that I opened my Journal.
It is to say that it is not yet midday ; that I am more than
ever abandoned to my tormenting thoughts ; that there is a
pressure on my heart ; and I should like to howl. However,
that is my natural state.
The sky is grey, the Chiaja is only crossed by cabs and dirty
foot-passengers; the stupid trees planted on each side shut
out the view of the sea. At Nice, on the Promenade dts
AtigUii*, there are the villas on one side, and on the other
the sea, which comes and breaks on the shingle without
obstruction. Here there are the houses on one side, on
the other a sort of garden extending as far as the road which
separates it from tne sea, from wnich it is itself separated
by a tolerably large extent of waste land, covered with
stones and buildings % and presenting a spectacle of genuine
desolation.
When you get to the square at the end of the Chiaja,
which is planted with pretty shrubs, you feel much better,
and this place is pretty. Farther on you get to the quay ;
on the left hand are the houses, on the right the sea ; but
the sea is stopped by a wall with balustrades, and lined
by sellers of oysters and shells; then come the railings
of the harbour, the various erections belonging to the service
of boats, the harbour itself ; but that is no longer the sea ; it
is a dirty place encumbered by a mass of hideousness.
Dull weather always makes me a little sad ; but here,
to-day, it oppresses me.
Tnis deathly silence in our hotel, the worrying noise of
cabs and carts with bells outside, this grey sky, this wind
shaking the curtains! Ah! I am very wretched; and it is
not the fault of the sky, or the sea, but of the earth !
Friday, April 2\st. — When I went into the drawing-
room this morninff I was stifled by the smell of flowers. The
room is literally full of them. They are flowers from Doenhoff,
Altamura, and Torlonia. Doenhoff has sent a table of flowers.
The table of flowers has taken the place of the stand ; but
it is not that of which I wanted to speak.
Listen to this then : Since the soul exists — since it is the
soul which animates the body ; since it is this vaporous
substance alone which feels, loves, hates, desires ; since, in
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88 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
short, it is through the soul that we live — how is it that a
rent of any sort in this vile body, or some internal disorder —
excess in wine or food — how is it that these things can make
the soul take flight ?
I make a wheel turn ; and I do not stop it till such is
my will This stupid wheel cannot stop my hand. Just so
the soul, which sets the members of the body in motion,
considering that it is the thinking essence, ought not to be
expelled by a hole in the head or the indigestion caused by
a lobster ! It ought not to be, and yet it is. Whence one
must conclude that the soul is a mere invention. And this
conclusion overthrows one after another all our most inti-
mate and cherished beliefs, like the falling scenery when a
theatre is on fire.
Rome, Monday , April 24>th. — I had something to tell
all day ; but I can no longer remember anything. 1 only
know that, on the Corso, we met A ; he ran up to the
carriage, quite radiant and joyous, aijd asked whether we
should be at home this evening. We should be at home.
Alas!
He came, and I went to the drawing-room, and began to
talk quite naturally like the others. He told me that he had
been at the convent four days, and afterwards in the country.
At present he is at peace with all his relations, he intends to
;o into society, to be prudent, and think of the future. Finally,
_ie told me that I had enjoyed myself at Naples, that I had
been a coquette, as I always was, that this proved quite
plainly that I did not love him. He told me also that
ne had seen me the other Sunday near the convent San
Giovanni e Paolo. And to prove that he was speaking
the truth, he told me how I was dressed and everything 1
did, and I must confess that he was right.
" You love me ? " he asked at length.
" And you ? "
"Ah, that is your way, you always make fun of
me!"
" And if I were to say yes ! . . ."
He is quite changed. You would say that in twenty days
he has become a man of thirty. He talks quite differently,
and has grown so sensible that it's a perfect miracle. He
seems to be half a Jesuit.
" You know that now I practise hypocrisy, I bow to my
father, I always say yes to him ; I am prudent, and think of
my future."
£
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ROME, 1876. 89
To-morrow perhaps I shall be able to tell something, but
this evening I am so stupid that it's ridiculous.
Tuesday, April 25th. — " I will come to-morrow," he
said, as if to quiet me, and we will talk seriously about all
this."
" It is useless, Monsieur. I see well enough what to think
of your fine love. You need not come back any more," I
adaed, more feebly. " You have vexed me, I bid you good-bye
in anger, and I shall not sleep all night. And you can boast
that you have put me in a passion ; go ! . . . "
" But, Mademoiselle, how strange you are ! I will speak to
you to-morrow when you are calmer.
It is he who complains, it is he who says that I have
always refused him, that I have always laughed, that I do
not love him. I should not have spoken differently in his
place, but all the same I think him rather haughty and
collected for a man who really loves.
At present I have had enough of it, and I shall not speak
another word on the matter.
If he wishes it let him be the first to begin.
It seems to me that he no longer loves me. Well and good,
there is something to rouse me, to make my blood boil, and
my back feel cold.
I much prefer that, oh yes, at any rate I am furious !
furious ! furious !
The rain continues, and Baron Visconti is announced — that
charming man is witty in spite of his age. Suddenly they
began to talk about Pietro in the midst of a conversation
about the Odescalchi marriage.
"Oh, Madame, little A as you call him, is not a
match to be despised, for that poor Cardinal is getting worse
from day to day, so that one of these days his nephews
will be millionaires, and in consequence Pierre will be a
millionaire."
" You know, Baron, I have been told that the little fellow
has gone into a convent," said mamma.
" Oh no, he has something very different in his mind, I
assure you."
Then we talked about Rome : I said how much I loved it,
and what it cost me to leave it.
•' Well then, stay here."
" I should like to very much."
" I am glad to see that your heart loves our city."
" Talking of hearts, have you seen mine ? Look here. . . "
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90 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
I showed hi in the silver heart : a man's heart.
" You know," I added, " I am to be left behind in Rome,
in a convent."
" Oh ! " said Visconti, " I hope you will stay there in some
other way, we shall find the means, and I shall find it," said
he, pressing my hand warmly.
Mamma is radiant, I am radiant, there is a universal
Aurora Borealis.
This evening, contrary to all expectation, there is a toler-
ably large gathering, among others A .
The company at one table, and I with Pietro at another,
and we discussed love in general, and Pietro's love in par-
ticular. He has deplorable principles ; or, rather, he is so
mad that he has none at alL He spoke so lightly of his love
for me that I knew not what to think. Altogether he is so
like me in character that it is extraordinary.
I know not what was said, but at the end of five minutes
we were no longer quarrelling. We had had an explanation
and had agreed to be married — at any rate, he had. For my
part, I was silent most of the time.
" You are going awav Thursday ? "
" Yes, and jou will forget me."
" Ah, certainly not. I shall go to Nice."
" When ? "
" As soon as possible. At present I cannot"
" Why ? Tell me, tell me at once ! "
" My father would not allow it."
" But you have only to tell him the truth."
" Of course I shall tell him that I am going for your sake,
that I love you, that I want to marry, but not at once. You do
not know my father ; I have just been forgiven, but I dare not
ask any favour of him just yet."
" Speak to-morrow. '
" I should not dare. I have not yet won his confidence.
Only fancy, for three years he never spoke to me. In a
month's time I shall be at Nice."
" In a month's time I shall be there no longer."
" And where shall vou go ? "
" To Russia, and tnen I shall go away, and you will forget
me."
" But in a fortnight I shall be at Nice. . . . And then we
will go away together. I love you ! I love you ! " he repeated,
falling on his knees.
" You are happy ? " I asked, clasping his head between my
hands.
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ROME, 1876. 91
" Oh yes. because I believe in you ; I believe in your
word."
" Come to Nice at once," said I.
" Ah ! if I could."
" One can do whatever one wishes."
Thursday, April 27th. — O God, thou hast been so good
to me hitherto, ao, for pity's sake, get me out of this !
And God has got me out of it.
At the station I began walking up and down with the
Cardinalino.
" I love you," he cried, " and shall always love you, to my
sorrow perhaps."
" And you see me go away, and it's all one to you ? "
" Oh don't say so ! . . . . You shouldn't talk like that ;
you don't know what I've suffered. Besides, I know where
you were, and what you were doing. Since I saw you I am
entirely changed; just look at me. But you have always
treated, me like a scamp. If I have committed follies in my
time, so have others ; that's no reason for thinking me a
food-for-nothing, a hare-brained fellow. For your sake I
ave broken with the past ; for your sake I have endured
it all ; for your sake I have made peace with my
family."
"Not for me, Monsieur. I can't see what I have to do
with this peace."
"Ah, it was because I have been thinking of you
seriously."
" How so ? "
" You always want me to explain myself in detail, with
mathematical precision, and yet certain things are none the
less clear for being merely hinted at ; and you always make
fun of me."
" That is not true."
" Do you love me ? "
" Yes ; and let me tell you this. I am not in the habit of
saying the same thing twice over. I want to be believed at once.
I have never said to any man what I am saying to you. I am
very much offended, for my words, instead of being considered
a favour, are taken very lightly, and commented on. And
you dare doubt what I say ? Indeed, Monsieur, you put me
out of patience."
He grew confused, and begged me to excuse him ; we
scarcely spoke after this.
" Will you write to me ? " he asked.
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92 MARIE BASHKIRT9EFF.
" No, Monsieur, I cannot ; but I allow you to write to me."
" Ah, ah ! what fine love ! " he exclaimed.
*"""" Monsieur," I said, gravely, " do not ask too much. It is
a very great favour when a young lady allows a man to write
to her ; if you don't know it, I teU you so. But we shall have
to get into the carriage ; don't let us lose our time in idle
discussions. Will you write tome?"
" Yes ; and, say what you like, I feel that I love you as
I shall never love again. Do you love me ? "
I nodded in the affirmative.
" Will you always love me ? "
Same action.
" Good-bye till we meet again, Monsieur."
"When?"
" Next year."
"No!"
" Come, good-bye, Monsieur ! "
And witnout giving him my hand I got in the railway
carriage, where all our people were already settled.
" You did not give me your hand," said A , coming
near.
I held out my hand.
" I love you," he said, looking very white.
" An revair ! " I said, softly.
"Think of me sometimes," he said, getting still paler.
" As for me I do nothing but think of you. '
" Yes, Monsieur ; au revoir ! "
The train began moving, and for some minutes I could
still see him looking at me with so much emotion that it
appeared like indifference; then he made a few steps to the
door but as I was still visible he stopped again like an
automaton, pulled his hat over his eyes, made another step
forwards .... and then, and then, we were already too far
to see.
I should have felt wretched at leaving Rome, to which
I have got thoroughly used, had not an idea struck me in
seeing the new moon towards four o'clock.
"Do you see that crescent ? " I asked Dina.
" Yes," she replied.
"Well, this crescent will become a fine moon in eleven
or twelve days."
" No doubt."
" Have you seen the Coliseum by moonlight ? "
"Yes."
" And I have not."
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NICE, 1876. 93
" I know."
" But perhaps you don't know that I wish to see it ? "
" Probably."
" Yes, and on that account I shall go back to Rome in
ten or twelve days, partly for the races, and partly for the
Coliseum."
"Oh!"
" Yes, I shall go with my aunt ; and it will be so nice
without you and mamma, only with aunt. We shall drive
out in a victoria, and it will be very amusing.
" Very well," said mamma, " it shall be so, I promise
you ! "
And she kissed me on both cheeks.
Friday, April 28th. — I went to sleep and had frightful
dreams, like nightmares.
At eleven o'clock I lay down, so as not to see the olive
trees and the red earth, and at one o'clock we arrived at the
station in Nice, to the great delight of my aunt, who became
quite excited, as did also MUe. Colignon, Sapogenikoff,
&c. &c.
" You know," I said, before the doors were opened, " that
I am very sorry to come back, but I couldn't help it."
And 1 embraced them all together.
The house is furnished most exquisitely ; my room is
dazzling, all decked out in pale-blue satm. Iii opening
the door to the balcony to look at our pretty garden,
and the Promenade, and the sea, I was prompted to say
out loud —
" They may say what they like, there is nothing so mag-
nificently simple and exquisitely poetical as Nice."
Thursday, May ±th. — The genuine season of Nice is in
May. The beauty of it is quite maddening. I went out
for a stroll in the garden by the light of a young moon, the
croaking of the frogs mingling with the murmur of the waves
as they softly broke on the pebbles. Divine silence and
divine harmony !
Naples is considered a marveL I am sorry, but, for my
part, I prefer Nice. Here the sea bathes the shore without
any hindrance ; while it is stopped over there by a wall with
a stupid balustrade, and even this wretched bit of seaboard is
obstructed by shops and stalls, and other nuisances.
" Think of me sometimes. As for me I shall do nothing
else but think of you ! "
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94 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
God, forgive him, for he knew not what he was saying !
I allow him to write, and he doesn't avail himself of this
permission! Will he even send the promised telegram to
mamma ?
Friday, May 5th. — What was I saying ? Ah, yes, that
Pietro's conduct towards me was unpardonable.
I, who am not in love, can't understand these hesita-
tions !
1 have read in novels that men will often appear forgetful
and indifferent, owing to the strength of their love.
I should like to believe those novels.
I feel sleepy and bored, and in this state would like to see
Pietro, and make him talk of love. I should like to dream
he was here ; I should like to have a nice dream. Reality is
dangerous.
I am bored, and when I am bored I grow very tender.
Ah ! when will this state of dulness, disappointment, envy,
and vexation, come to an end !
Ah ! when shall I live as I would like to !
When I am married to a great fortune, to a great name,
and to a sympathetic man, for I am not as mercenary as you
think. But if I am not it is from egoism.
It would be horrible to live with a man one hated, and
neither wealth nor position would avail me anything. May
God and the Holy Virgin protect me !
May Qth. — You know I have an idea. I am mad to see
Pietro again.
This evening I give a fete, such as has not been seen for
years, at the Kue de France. You must know there is a
custom in celebration of May in Nice ; they hang up a garland
and a lantern, dancing in circle and singing the while. Since
Nice has become French this custom has been more and
more neglected, and now you scarcely see three or four
lanterns in the whole town.
Well, as for me, I give them a rossigno. I call it thus
because the Rossigno cite vola is the most popular and the
prettiest song in Nice.
I have had prepared beforehand a big thing, consisting
of foliage and flowers, and suspended across the street, decor-
ated with Venetian lamps.
Triphon (grandpapa's servant) has been entrusted with the
preparation of fireworks on the wall of our garden, and
charged to light up the scene from time to time with Bengal
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HOME, 1876. 95
lire. Triphon is beside himself with joy. All these
splendours are accompanied by a flute, a harp, a violin, and
cneered with wine in abundance. Some kind neighbours
came to ask us to come to their terrace, for Olga and I were
looking on perched on a wooden ladder.
We went to the neighbour's terrace, and Olga, Marie,
Dina, and myself, went into the middle of the road, calling
the dancers, trying and succeeding in putting spirit into the
thing.
1 sang and danced with everybody, to the delight of the
good Ni<;ois, especially the people of our quarter, who all
Know me and cannot say enough in praise of " Mademoiselle
Marie."
Not knowing what else to do I make myself popular, and
it flatters mamma. She doesn't consider the expense. What
pleased them more than anything was my singing and saying
some words in patois.
While I was standing on the ladder with Olga, who pulled
me by the skirts, I felt much inclined to make a speech ! but
I prudently refrained for this year. . . .
I looked at the dancing, and listened to the cries in a
dreamy way, as often happens to me. And when the fire-
works ended in a magnificent Catherine wheel, we all returned
home accompanied by a murmur of satisfaction.
Stinday, May 7th. — There is a certain despairing satis-
faction in finding a reason for despising everybody. It is
free from illusion at least. If Pietro has forgotten he has
cruelly insulted me, and I inscribe one more name on my
tablets of hatred and revenge.
I like mankind as it is, and love it and am part of it ; and
I live with all those people, and my fortune and happiness
depend upon them.
All tnis is very stupid. Indeed, in this world, all
that is not sad is stupid, and all that is not stupid is
sad.
At three o'clock to-morrow I am going to Rome, as much,
for the change as to despise A , if I have the opportunity.
Thursday, May 11th. — As I said on Tuesday evening, I
left yesterday at two o'clock with my aunt. It's a terrible
proof of love I seem to be giving Pietro.
Ah, so much the worse. If he thinks I love him, if he
thinks anything so monstrous, he is only a brute.
At two o'clock we are in Rome. I jump into a fiacre ;
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96 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
aunt follows me, the porter of the hotel takes our tickets,
and .... and .... lam in Rome. Oh delight ! . . . .
Our luggage will only arrive to-morrow. In order to see
the return from the races we must be satisfied with our
travelling dresses. However, I looked very well in my grey
costume and felt hat. I take my aunt to the Corso. How
delightful to see the Corso again after Nice ! I bewilder her
with explanations and a lot of nonsense, for she seems to see
nothing.
And here is the Caeciti Club, there was a thrill of excite-
ment as I passed ; the monk gapes open-mouthed, then takes
off his hat, smiling from ear to ear.
We go to the Villa Borghese, where there is an agricultural
show ot the district.
We walk through the exhibition, admiring the flowers and
plants, and meet Zucchini. There are a good many people
stilL
They seem much surprised at seeing me appear for the
third time. I am well known in Rome.
Simonetti comes up. I introduce him to Madame
Romanoff, and tell him that it is owing to a wonderful
accident that I am here.
I give Pietro a sign to come ; he quite beams, and looks
at me with eyes that show he has taken everything very
seriously.
He made us laugh a great deal by describing his stay
at the convent. He said he had agreed to stay for four
days, and once he was there they detained him for seventeen
days.
" Why did you tell a story, why did you say you had been
at Terracina ? "
" Because I was ashamed to tell the truth."
" And your friends at the club know it ? "
" Yes. At first I said I had been at Terracina, and then
they talked to me of the convent, and at last I told them
everything and laughed, and everybody laughed. Torlonia
was enraged."
" Why ? "
" Because I didn't tell him everything at first ; because I
didn't confide in him."
Afterwards he told us that to please his father he pretended
to let a rosary fall out of his pocket as if by accident, to make
him believe that he always carried one about with him. I
assailed him with sarcasms and impertinent speeches, which
he parried very well, I must say.
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ROME, 1876. 97
Saturday, May ISth. — I don't disguise my feelings or
my thoughts, and I haven't the strength to bear anything
with dignity, for I have been crying. And while I am
writing I hear the noise my tears make in falling on the
paper — big tears which flow unhindered and without distorting
my features. I laid down on my back to keep them back
but did not succeed.
Instead of saying what makes me cry, I describe my
way of weeping ! But how can I tell why ? I can't account
for things. Is it possible, I cried, with my head thrown back
on the sofa, that that's it ? He has forgotten ! No doubt,
since he carried on an indifferent kind of conversation inter-
spersed with words said in such a low tone that I could
not catch them, besides he said again that he only loved
me when I was near him, that I was made of ice, that he
should go to America, that he is in love when he sees me, but
forgets when I am away.
I begged him very coldly not to speak of it again. Ah !
I can't write, and you will see yourself what my feelings must
be, and how deeply I am insulted.
I can't write, and yet something seems to force me to. As
long as I have not told everything I feel ill at ease.
I talked and made tea as well as I could until half-past
ten. Then Pietro came ; Simonetti left soon afterwards, and
we three remained. We sjwke of my Journal, that is, of the
subjects which I treat in it, and A begged me to read
him something on the soul and God. So I went into the ad-
joining room and knelt down by the famous white box, look-
ing for what I wanted, while Pietro held a candle. But as I
found certain passages of mutual interest while turning over
the leaves, I read them out and went on for about half an
hour.
Afterwards in the salon he began telling us all sorts of
anecdotes about his life since his eighteenth year.
I listened to all he said with a certain terror and jealousy.
His complete dependence on others chills me ; I feel sure
if they forbade him to love me he would obey.
His family, these priests, these monks, frighten me. How-
ever much he may praise their goodness, I am filled with
horror on hearing of their wickedness and tyranny. Yes, they
frighten me, and so do his two brothers ; but that is not the
question, I shall be free to accept or refuse.
Thank Heaven I can write again to-day ; I was tortured
yesterday by not being able to express what I felt.
I 2
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98 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
All I heard this evening, the conclusions I am forced to
draw, and what has happened before, seems like a weight for my
head to carry. Then there is also the simple regret of seeing
him go away this evening ; it's so long till to-morrow ! I felt
a great inclination to weep from uncertainty, and perhaps
from love.
Then leaning my chin in my left hand, and the left elbow
in my right hand, with frowning brows and scornful lip I
began dreaming of it all, of what I wanted, and especially of
what I hadn't got
Then I began writing, but feeling irresistibly impelled to
think, I left off for a moment ana wrote all I have just
put down.
Wednesday, May 17th. — I had still a great deal left
to say of yesterday, but everything fades before this
evening.
He nas spoken again to me of his love ; I assured him that
it was useless, that my parents would never consent.
" They would be quite right," he said, immediately ; " I am
not fit to make any one happy. I said so to my mother. I
spoke of you, I said : ' She is so good, so religious, and as for
me, I believe in nothing, I am a wretch/ I remained seven-
teen days in the convent, I prayed and meditated, but I don't
believe in God, religion does not exist for me, I believe in
nothing."
I looked at him with large frightened eyes.
"You must have faith," I said, taking his hand, "ycu
must amend and be good."
" That's impossible, and no one can love me as I am, can
they?"
"H'ni! H'm!"
" I am very unhappy. You will never have any
idea of my position. As far as appearances go I seem
to be on good terms with my people. I hate them all —
my father, my brothers, my mother herself; I am most
unhappy. And if you ask me why, I don't know. . . . Oh,
these priests ! " he exclaimed, gnashing his teeth and
clenching his hands, and turning his face, disfigured by
hatred, to heaven. " The priests, on ! if you knew what they
are like ! "
It took him five minutes to calm down.
" Yet I love you, and you only."
" Give me a proof."
" Ask one."
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ROME, 1876. 99
" Come to Nice."
" You make me feel beside myself when you say so ; you
know very well that I can't"
" Why ? "
" Because my father won't give me any money ; because
my father doesn't want me to go to Nice."
" I quite understand, but suppose you tell him why you
wish to go ? "
" He won't hear of it I have talked to my mother. They
are so used to my bad habits that they won't believe me
any more."
"You must amend your ways; you must come to
Nice."
" But since I shall be refused, as you say ?"
" I have not said that I would refuse you."
" Ah, it would be too much," he said, looking closely at
me, " it would be a dream."
" But a beautiful dream, don't you think ? "
"Oh yes!"
" Then ask your father's leave."
" Yes, certainly ; but he doesn't wish me to get married.
Affairs of this kind ought to be arranged for us by our father
confessors."
" Well, let them do so."
" Heavens ! and it's you who say that ? "
" Can't you see, I don't want you, but I would like some
satisfaction for my wounded pride."
" I am a wretch and accursed on earth."
It is useless, impossible, to follow these hundreds of
phrases in detail. I shall only say that he repeated a
nundred times that he loved me, in such a soft voice and
with such entreaty in his eyes, that I went close to him of
my own accord, and that we spoke like excellent friends
of a number of things. I assured him there was a God in
heaven and happiness on earth. I wanted him to believe
in God, and to see Him with my eyes and pray to Him
with my voice."
" Then, all is over," I said, going away ; " adieu ! "
" I love you ! "
" And I believe you," I said, pressing his two hands, " I
pity you ! "
"Will you never love me ? "
" When you are free."
" When I am dead."
" I can't love you at present, for I pity and despise you.
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100 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Why, if they told you not to love me, you would obey
them."
" Perhaps ! "
" How dreadful ! "
" I love you," he said, for the hundredth time, and he
went away crying. I went close to the table, where my
aunt was sitting, and I said to her in Russian, " that
the monk had paid me compliments, which I would tell
her to-morrow." He came back again, and I bade him
good-bye.
" No, not good-bye."
"Yes, yes, yes. I have loved you until we had this
conversation. (1880. — No, I never loved him, it was
merely the result of a romantic imagination in quest of
excitement.)
" Ah ! so much the worse, I loved you, I was wrong, I
know it."
" But ..." he began again.
" Adieu ! "
"Then, you are not coming for a ride to Tivoli
to-morrow ? "
"No."
" And it's not because you are tired that you have given
up the idea ? "
" No, fatigue is only an excuse ; I don't wish to see you
any more."
" Oh no ! Impossible ! " said A , holding my hands.
"Good-bye!"
"You told me to speak to my father, and to come to
Nice," said A , on the staircase before going.
"Yes."
" I will do so, let it cost what it may ; I swear it"
And he went away.
During the last three days I have a new idea. I fancy I
am going to die ; I cougn and am in pain. The day
before yesterday I sat down in the salon at two o'clock
in the morning ; my aunt begged me to go to sleep and I
didn't budge, saying that it was a proof I was going to die.
" Ah ! " said my aunt, " from your manner of going on I
don't doubt that you will die."
" All the better for you, you won't have many expenses ;
you won't have to pay Lafernere so much."
And seized with a fit of coughing, I threw myself on the
sofa, to the terror of my aunt, who ran out to make me believe
she was angry.
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ROME, 1876. 101
Friday, May 19th. — My aunt has gone to the Vatican ;
and as I can't be with rietro, I prefer remaining alone.
He is coming about five o'clock ; I hope so much that
my aunt won't be back. I should like to be alone with
him as if by chance, for I must no longer appear to seek
him.
I have been singing, but my chest hurts me. Do you see
that I have been posing as a martyr ? It's too silly ! . . . .
My hair is dressed k la Venus Capitoline ; I am all in
white like a Beatrice, with a rosary and an ivory cross round
the neck.
Whatever one may say, there is in man a certain need of
idolatry, of material sensations. We must have images to look
at, and crucifixes to kiss.
Last evening I counted the beads of the rosary — there are
sixty — and I prostrated myself sixty times, each time hitting
the floor with my forehead. I was quite out of breath, but it
seemed to me 1 had done something pleasing in the sight
of God. No doubt it was absurd, but the intention was
good.
God takes count of our intentions !
Ah, I have got the New Testament here. Let us see. Not
being able to find the Bible, I read Dumas. It isn*t the same
thing.
My aunt came back at four o'clock, and after about
twenty-five minutes I managed to rouse her interest so
cleverly that she has gone to Santa Maria Maggiore. It is
half-past four. I did wrong, I ought to have despatched her
at five o'clock, for I fear that she will again return too
soon.
When Count A was announced, I was still alone,
for my aunt had the inspiration to go to see the Pantheon
as well as Santa Maria Maggiore. My heart was beating so
violently that I was afraid it might be heard, as they say
in novels.
He sat down near me, and took hold of my hand, which I
withdrew immediately.
He then told me that he loved me. I pushed him away,
smiling politely.
" My aunt will be in soon ; have patience," I said.
" I have so much to say to you ! "
" Really ? "
" But your aunt will be back soon."
" Then be quick about it."
" They are serious matters."
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102 MARIE BA8HKIBT8EFF.
" Tell me."
" To begin with, you did wrong to write all those things ot
me."
" Don't let us talk of that, Monsieur ; I warn you that I
am very nervous, so you will do well either to speak in a
straightforward manner, or to keep silent."
"Just listen. I have spoken to my mother, and my
mother has spoken to my father."
" Well, what next ? "
" I did well, did I not ? "
" That doesn't concern me. What you have done you did
to please yourself."
" You don't love me?"
" No."
" And I love you to madness."
" So much the worse for you," I said, smiling, and letting
him take my hand.
" No, listen, let us talk seriously ; you will never be serious.
I love you ; I have spoken to my mother. ... Be my wife ! "
said he.
" At last ! " I said to myself; but I did not answer him.
"Well?" he asked.
" Well,". I replied, smiling.
" You know," he said, reeling encouraged, " we must get
somebody to take it up."
" What do you mean ? "
"Well, I can't do it myself; somebody must take the
matter in hand, some grave and respectable person, who will
speak to my father, and, in short, arrange everything. Who
shall it be ? "
" Visconti," I said, laughing.
" Yes," said he, very seriously, " I thought of him ; he
is the man. He is so old that he is only fit to act
Mercury now. . . ." " Only," he went on, " I am not rich,
not rich at alL Ah, I wish I were a hunchback and had
millions."
" That would not help your cause with me."
" Oh ! oh ! oh ! "
" I think you are insulting me," I said, getting up.
" No, no ; my remarks did not apply to you. You are
quite an exception."
" Then don't speak of money to me."
" Dear dear ! how difficult you are to please ! it is impos-
sible to know what you want. Do, do, consent to be my
wife ! "
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ROME, 1876. 103
He wanted to kiss my hand ; and I offered the cross of
my rosary, which he kissed. Then, raising his head —
" How religious you are ! " he said, looking at me.
" And you ! you don't believe in anything ! "
" I — I love you. Do you love me ? "
" I don't speak of these things."
" But, in Heaven's name, do make it clear to me."
After a moment's hesitation, I gave him my hand.
" Then you consent ? '
" Softly ! " I said, rising from my seat. " You know there
are my father and my grandfather, and they will be strongly
opposed to a Catholic marriage."
" Oh, then there's that still ? "
" Yes ; there is that to take into account."
He took me by the arm, and made me sit next him
opposite the looking-glass. We looked very beautiful
together.
" We will let Visconti manage matters," said A .
" Yes."
" He is the man. But how young we are to get married !
Do you think we shall be happy ? "
" To begin with, you will want my consent."
"Of course. But supposing you consent, shall we be
happy?"
" If I consent, I will take my oath that there shall
not be a happier man on the face of the earth than your-
seix.
" Then we will get married. Be my wife." I smiled.
" Ah ! " he cried, leaping about tne room ; " how haj
I shall be ; how funny it will seem when we have chi
ren!"
" Monsieur, vou are going mad."
" Yes, with love ! "
At this moment we heard voices on the stairs. I sat
down quickly, awaiting my aunt, who entered immediately.
A great weight was taken from my heart. I grew lively,
and A was enchanted.
I was tranquil and happy ; but I have a great many
things to say and hear still.
With the exception of our apartment, all the rest of the
hotel is empty. In the evening we take a candle and go
through those immense rooms, in which the perfume of tne
ancient grandeur of Italian palaces still seems to linger. But
my aunt is with us. I don't know how to manage.
We remain* over half an hour in a large yellow
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104 MARIE BASHKIBTSEFF.
salon, and Pietro mimics the cardinal, his father, and
brothers.
My aunt makes A write some nonsense in Russian.
" Copy that," said I, taking a book and writing something
on the ny-leaf.
"What?"
" Read."
And I indicated the following eight words : — " Leave at
midnight I will speak to you down-stairs."
" Did you understand ? I asked, rubbing it out.
" Yes "
I felt easier then, and yet strangely agitated.
A kept looking at the clock every minute, and I was
afraid lest the reason might be guessed ; as if any one could
possibly have guessed ! Only bad consciences have these
terrors.
At midnight he rose and bade me good-night, pressing my
hand tightly.
" Good evening, Monsieur," I said.
Our eyes met, and I cannot describe what a simultaneous
flash it was.
" Well, aunt, we shall leave early to-morrow ; you had
better go to your room, and I shall lock you in to prevent
your disturbing me while I am writing ; then I shall go to
bed auickly."
"You promise ?"
" Certainly."
I locked my aunt's room, and, after {jiving a glance in the
looking-glass, I went down-stairs, and Pietro slipped through
the half-open door like a shadow.
" So much may be said without words when we love ! As
for me," he whispered, " I love you."
It amused me to act a scene in a novel, and involuntarily
I thought of Dumas.
"We leave to-morrow. And we must talk seriously of
things ; and I am forgetting it. . . . ."
" Impossible to think of anything."
" Come," I said, shutting the door so as only to leave a
faint glimmering of light.
And I sat down on the last step of the little staircase at
the bottom of the passage.
He knelt down.
Every instant I thought I heard somebody coming. I
remainea motionless, trembling at every drop of rain which
beat against the panes.
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ROME, J 876. 105
" It's nothing," said my impatient lover.
"You speak very much at your ease, Monsieur. If any
one were to come, you would feel flattered and I should be
lost."
With my head thrown back, I looked at him through my
" With me ? " — misunderstanding the meaning of my
words — " with me ? I love you too much ; you are quite
safe."
I gave him my hand on hearing those noble words.
" Have I not always been well-behaved and respectful ? "
"Oh no, not always. You wanted even to kiss me
once."
"Don't speak of that, I beg. Oh, I have begged your
pardon so often ! Be good ! Forgive me ! "
" I have forgiven you," I said, gently.
I felt so thoroughly at ease ! So that is being in
love, I thought. Is it really serious ? I kept thinking he
would laugh, because his manner was so very grave and
tender.
I dropped my eyes beneath his ; they flashed with such
extraordinary brilliancy.
" But we are again forgetting to speak of our affairs ; let
us be serious and talk."
" Yes ; let us."
"But, first of all, what are we to do, as you are going
away to-morrow ? Don't go away ; oh, pray don't go
away ! "
" It's impossible ! my aunt . . . ."
" She is so good ; do stay ! "
" She is good ; but she won't consent. And so, adieu ;
perhans for ever."
" No, no ; since you have consented to become my
wife ! "
"When?"
" I shall be in Nice at the end of this month. If you
would allow me to make my escape by getting into debt, I
should leave to-morrow."
" No, I don't wish it ; I could not consent to see you in
that case."
" But you can't prevent my going to Nice and getting into
scrapes."
" Yes, yes, yes ; I forbid you."
" Then I must wait till my father gives me the money."
" Listen ; I hope he will be reasonable;"
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106 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
" He is not opposed to it — my mother has been speaking to
him ; but if he were not to give me any money, you know
how dependent, how miserable I am ! "
" Insist upon it."
" Give me some advice — you who argue like a book, you
who speak of the soul and God — give me some advice."
" Pray to God," said I, offering him my cross, quite ready
to laugh if he were to see the ridiculous side of the thing, or
to keep my countenance if he took it seriously.
He loolced at my impassive face, pressed the cross to his
forehead, and dropped his head in prayer.
" I have prayed," he said.
" Really ? "
" Really ! But let us continue We are agreed to
put the matter into Baron V 's hands ? "
" Very well."
I said " Very well," while I thought " Provisionally."
" But it can't be arranged immediately," I continued.
" In two months."
" You are laughing at me," I said, inquiringly, as if it were
the most impossible thing in the world.
" Then in six ? "
"No!"
" In a year ? "
" Yes, m a year. You will wait ? "
" If it must be ; with the condition of seeing you every
day."
" Well, come to Nice, for in a month I am going to
Russia."
" I shall follow you."
" That's impossible."
" And why ? "
" My mother won't allow it."
" No one can prevent my travelling."
" Don't talk nonsense."
" But as I love you ! "
I bent towards him in order not to lose one of his
words.
" I shall always love you," he said. " Be my wife."
We drifted mto the commonplaces of love-making —
commonplaces which would be divine if one really loved
always.
" Yes, truly," he said. " How beautiful it would be to pass
our lives together ! . . . . Yes, to pass my life with you ;
always together, at your feet , , . , adoring you And
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HOME, 1876. 107
when we are both of us old, so old as to take snuff', we shall
still love each other. Yes, yes dearest ! "
He could find no other words, and these commonplace
words became a tender caress in his mouth.
He looked at me with folded hands.
Then we talked sense; then he cast himself at my feet,
crying, in a choked voice, that I couldn't love him as he loved
me, it was impossible.
He said we ought to tell each other our secrets.
" Oh yours, Monsieur, don't interest me."
" Oh, tell me, how many times have you been in love,
Mademoiselle ? "
"Once.'\
" And with whom."
" With a man I didn't know, whom I have seen ten or a
dozen times in the street, who didn't even know of my ex-
istence. I was twelve years old then, and have never spoken
to him."
" This is a fable ! "
" It's the truth."
" But it's a romance, a phantasy ; it's impossible ; it's a
shadow."
" Yes but I feel that I am not ashamod of having loved
him, and that he has grown a kind of divinity for me. I
don't compare him to any one, for no one is worthy
of it.
" Where is he ? "
" I don't even know. He is married far away."
"What folly!"
And my confounded Pietro looked rather incredulous and
disdainful.
" But it's true ; and you see I love you, and that's another
matter."
" I give you my whole heart, and you only give me the half
of yours," he said.
" Don't ask too much, and be content."
" But that isn't all. There's something else."
"That's all."
" Forgive me, and suffer me not to believe you this time."
(Oh, the depravity of it !)
" You must believe the truth."
"I can't."
" So much the worse for you," I cried, vexed.
" It's beyond me," he said.
" Then you must be very depraved."
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108 MARIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
" Perhaps so."
" You aon't believe that I have never allowed any one to
kiss my hand ? "
" Pardon me, but I don't believe it ? "
" Come and sit down by my side," said I ; " let us talk, and
tell me everything."
He begins telling me all they have said to him, and he
has said to them.
" You won't be an^ry ? " he asked
" I shall be angry if you hide something from me."
" Well, then, you know that our famuy is a well-known
one."
" Yes."
" And you are strangers in Rome."
" What next ? "
" Well, my mother wrote to Paris, to several persons."
" Very naturally ; and what did they say of me ? "
"Nothing as yet But let them say what they like, I
shall always love you."
" I require no indulgence. . . ."
" Next," he said, " comes religion."
" Yes, religion."
" Oh," said Jie, in the calmest manner, " do turn
Catholic!"
I stopped him short very severely.
" Then do you want me to change my religion ? " cried
A .
" No, for if you did so I should despise you."
I should really only have been vexed on account of the
CardinaL
" How I love you ! how beautiful you are ! how happy we
shall be!"
For all reply I took his head in my hands and kissed him
on the forehead, on the eyes, on the hair. I did it more for
his sake than for mine.
" Marie, Marie ! " called my aunt from above.
" What's the matter ? " I asked, in a calm voice, passing
my head through the trap door, so that my voice might ap-
pear to come from my room.
" It's two o'clock, you must go to sleep."
" I am sleeping."
" Are you undressed ? "
" Yes ; do let me write."
" Go to bed."
" Yes, yes."
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ROME, 1876. 109
I came down and found the place empty ; the poor fellow
had hidden himself under the staircase.
" Now," said he, taking his place again, " let us speak of
the future."
" We will."
" Where shall we live ? Do you like Rome ? "
"Oh yes."
"Then we will live in Rome, but not with my family,
quite alone !
" I should think so ; in the first place, mamma would not
hear of my living with my husband's family."
" She is quite right. And then my family has such
extraordinary principles ! It would make us miserable.
We will buy a little house in the new part of the
town."
" I should prefer a big house."
And I tried to hide an expressive grimace.
" Well then, a big one."
And we began, or at least he did, to plan future arrange-
ments.
He was evidently very eager to change his condition.
" We shall go into society," I went on ; " we shall live in
grand style, shall we not ? "
" Oh, certainly ; tell me everything."
" Yes, when two people are going to pass their life together,
they ought to do so as well as possible.'
" I quite understand. You know all about my family, but
there's the Cardinal."
" We must be on good terms with him."
" I should think so indeed ; I shall try to be so. And you
know the greater part of his fortune is to go to the one who
first has a son ; so we must have a son as soon as possible.
Only I am not rich."
" What does it matter?" I said, a little hurt, but sufficiently
mistress of myself not to make any gesture of contempt ; it
might be a snare.
Then, as if tired of this grave discussion, he drooped his
head.
" Occhi neri" I said, covering them with my hand, for
his eyes frightened me.
He threw himself down before me, and made such protes-
tations, that I redoubled in watchfulness, and made him sit
down again by mv side.
No, it can't oe true love. If it were, there would be
nothing mean or vulgar about it.
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110 MARIE BA8HKIBT8EFR
I was dissatisfied at heart
" Be reasonable ! "
" Yes," he said, folding his hands, " yes, I am reasonable
and respectful ; I love you ! "
Did I really love him, or was it an affair of the imagina-
tion ? Who can tell exactly ? And yet, from the moment
one doubts. . . . doubt is no longer possible.
" Yes, I love you," I said, taking his two hands in mine
and pressing them hard. He said nothing ; perhaps he did
not understand what importance I attached to my words, or
perhaps he only considered them natural
My heart had ceased beating. It was a delicious moment,
for he remained as motionless as I did, without uttering a
syllable.
But I grew frightened, and told him to go.
" It is time."
" Already ? Stop just another minute by my side ? How
happy we are here ! You love me ? " he said. " Thou wilt
always love me ? Say, thou wilt always love me ! "
His saying, " thou," chilled me, and appeared humiliating
to me.
" Always ! " I said, inwardly discontented ; " always, and
you, you, love me ? "
" Oh ! how can you ask such a question ? Oh, my
darling ! I wish it were impossible to leave this spot ! "
" We should die of hunger," I said, humiliated by the
caressing appellation, and not knowing what to answer.
" But what a delicious death ! Then, in a year ! " said he,
devouring me with his eyes.
" In a year," I repeated, for the sake of saying something.
I was acting the part of a woman in love, intoxicated, inspired,
grave, and solemn.
Just then I heard my aunt, who, still seeing a light in my
room, grew very impatient.
" You hear ? " I said.
We embraced each other, and I ran away without looking
back. It's like some scene in a novel I have read somewhere.
Fie ! I am displeased with myself ! Shall I always be my
own critic, or is it because I am not altogether in love ?
" It is four o'clock," exclaimed my aunt.
" No, aunt, in the first place it's only ten minutes past
two ; and then, do leave me alone. "
I began undressing, deep in thought all the time. If any
one had seen me go into the drawing-room, near the stair-
case, at midnight, and leaving it at two o'clock, past two
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NICE, 1876. Ill
o'clock, after an uninterrupted tite-a-tdte with one of the most
profligate young Italians, this person would not believe the
Almighty himself, if he should have a fancy for coming down
from neaven in order to declare my innocence.
Even I, supposing I were in somebody else's place, would
not believe it, and yet you see ! Can we be sufficiently on
our guard against trusting to appearances ? How often
people condemn others, and form conclusive judgments when
there is next to nothing.
" It's dreadfiil ! You will kill yourself with sitting up so
late ! " cried my aunt.
"Listen," I said, unlocking her door, "don't scold or I
won't tell you anything."
" Oh dear, dear ! "
" Oh, dear aunt, you will be sorry . . . ."
" What's the matter ? Oh, what a girl ! "
"Well then, I have not been writing; I was with
Pietro."
" Unhappy girl, where were you ? "
" Down-stairs."
"How dreadful!"
" Oh, if you make such a row, I won't tell you anything."
" You have been with A ? "
" Yes ! "
" Well," she said, in a voice that made me tremble, " I
knew it when I was calling you a little while ago."
" How could you ? "
" I dreamed that mamma had come and said to me, 'Don't
leave Marie alone with A .' "
I felt a chill down my back as I realised that I had run
a serious risk. I expressed my fears lest any one should
write scandalous reports of me to Nice.
" There's nothing to be said," replied my aunt. " People
may venture to talk slander, but they dare not write
them."
Nice. — Tuesday, May 23rd. — I should like to be clear
about one thing : am I in love or am I not ?
I have pictured such worldly splendours and riches to
myself, that Pietro appears in my eyes a very twopenny-half-
penny sort of Count. Ah, H n !
Suppose I were to wait ! But to wait for what ? For
a prince and millionaire, a H n ; and if nothing comes
of it
I try to convince myself that A is very chic, but
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112 MAMIE BASHKJRTSEFF.
seeing him so intimately makes him appear less so than
he is.
This has been a sad day ! I have begun Colignon's
portrait on a background of sky-blue draperies. It's sketched
in, and I am very pleased with myself and with my model,
for she sits very well.
I know quite well that A has not yet had time to
write to me, but am uneasy nevertheless.
This evening I am in love with him ! Would I do well
to accept him ? As long as there's love it will be all right,
but afterwards ?
I fear that mediocrity will make me hang myself with
rage. I reason and argue as if I were mistress of the situation.
Oh, misery of miseries ! . . . .
" Wait ! Wait for what ?...."
" And if nothing comes ? Bah ! with such a face as
mine things do come, and the proof is ... . that I am
hardly sixteen, and that I might have been a countess
twice and a half — I say a half for Pietro."
Wednesday, May 24tth. — This evening, as I was going
away, I kissed mamma.
" She kisses like Pietro/' she said, laughing.
" Has he kissed you ? " I asked.
" But he has kissed you ! " said Dina, laughing, fancying
she was saying something awful, and on that account giving
me a violent sense of remorse, almost of shame.
" Oh, Dina ! " said I, with such a look that mamma and
aunt turned to her with an expression of reproach and
displeasure.
*""" " Marie kissed by a man ! Marie, the proud, the severe,
the haughty ! What an idea ! Marie, who nas made so many
fine speeches on the subject ! "
This "made me feel inwardly ashamed. Why, indeed, have
I been untrue to my principles ? I won't admit that I gave
way to any weakness, any momentary impulse. If I were to
admit it I should no longer esteem myself! I can't say that
it was from love.
To pass for unapproachable is enough. They are so
accustomed to it in me that they woula refuse to believe
their own eyes ; and I myself have so often held forth on
the rigidity of my views, that I would hardly believe it my-
self were it not for this Journal
In the first place, we should never allow any man to
make advance* to us without being certain of his love ; for
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NICE, 1876. 113
in that case he will not accuse us : whereas, with people who
are only flirting, we ought to be armed at all points, like a
porcupine. Let us be frivolous with a grave, loving man,
but severe with a frivolous one.
Ah ! how pleased I am to have written exactly what
I think !
Friday, May 26th. — My aunt says that A is only a
child.
" That's true," says mamma.
And these remarks show me that I have soiled myself
for nothing ; for, after all, I have soiled myself without love
and without an object How vexing !
After he had left me in Rome, I looked at myself in the
glass, fancying that my lips had changed colour. No one
is as sensitive as I am ! Since my face has been soiled, I
feel as dirty as after travelling twenty-four hours in the
train.
A will be able to say that I loved him, and that I
was very unhappy at the marriage coming to nothing.
The failure of a project of marriage is always a stain
on a young girl's reputation.
All the world will say that we loved each other. But
nobody will say that I refused him. We are neither suffi-
ciently popular nor sufficiently powerful for that.
Appearances, besides, will justify those who say so. It's
maddening ! . . . .
If V had not said those few words I would never have
gone so far " Oh, young lady ! you are still so very
young !".... In fact, to appease my vanity, I needed to
hear all those proposals of marriage. Observe that I did not
commit myself to any positive promise ; but, as I let him
speak, and allowed the young rascal to take my hands and
kiss them, he did not notice my tone ; and, in his happiness
and excitement, had no suspicions at all.
I knew quite well that ne was in earnest ; but I did not
anticipate, though I did in a way, that his family and all
these people would make such a fiiss. I did not expect it,
because I was not in earnest.
I must tell you that the man is a sack filled with self-
love and covered with vanity. There's one thing gives me
some comfort: before the great explanation he was always
saying that he suffered a great deal, that I made him very
unhappy with my coquetries and my heart of ice.
That's some consolation, but not enough. Indeed, I
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114 MABIE BASHKIBTSEFF.
must admit, by way of softening my complaints, that his
complaints and his torments appear very insignificant to
me, because it isn't I who have experienced them.
They say that the most poetic woman is the blonde ; but
I assert, on the contrary, that she is the material woman
par excellence.
Look at that golden hair, those blood-red lips, those dark-
grey eyes, that rosy body, which Titian paints so admir-
ably, and tell me what thoughts they suggest to your mind !
And for that matter, the pagan Venus and the Christian
Magdalen are both fair. AVnereas the dark woman, who is
a paradox of nature, like a fair man — the dark woman,
with her velvet eyes and ivory cheeks, may remain pure and
divine.
There is a beautiful picture by Titian at the Borghese
Palace, called Pure Love and Impure Love. Pure love is
depicted as a beautiful woman with rosy cheeks and black
hair, tenderly looking at her child which she is bathing in a
tank.
Impure love is a fair, possibly red-haired woman, leaning
against I know not what, with her arms crossed above her
head. And in short the normal woman is fair and the
normal man dark.
Varieties of an opposite type may sometimes be admirable,
but they are phenomenal.
I shall never see anything comparable to the Duke of
H ; he is tall, strong, with reddish hair tinged with
gold, a moustache of the same colour, small eyes of a
piercing grey, and a lip modelled on that of the Apollo
JBelvidere.
And his whole person has something so grand, majestic,
nay, insolent even, in his indifference to others.
Perhaps I considered him with the eyes of a person in
love But I don't think so.
How is it possible to be in love with a vain, brown, ugly
fellow, having fine eyes, indeed, but still timid in his walk
and without any style whatever, after a man like the duke,
even three years later ? And remember that three years,
from thirteen to sixteen, are like three centuries in a girl's
life.
Therefore I love no one but the duke ! He, it is true,
won't be proud of it, and won't care. I often invent stories
and picture known and unknown men to myself. Even to
an emperor I don't say " I love you," with genuine convic-
tion. There are some to whom I can't say it at all ! ... .
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NIOE, 1876. 115
Stop there ! For I have said it in reality Dear
me, yes; but so little did I think it that it isn't worth
speaking of.
Sunday, May 28th. — On coming in from our walk I went
to my room and sat at the window. It's odd that nothing
seems changed ; it seems as if we were back in last year. The
songs of Nice have never seemed so charming before ; the
croaking of the frogs, the murmur of a fountain, a sound of
singing in the distance, are desecrated by the noise of a
prosaic carriage.
I am reading Horace and Tibullus. The latter only speaks
of love, and that suits me. And I have the French text
opposite the Latin to give me practice. If only all this talk
or marriage, which I have thoughtlessly set going, won't
injure me. I fear it
I ought not to have promised A anything. I ought
to have answered him —
" I thank you, Monsieur, for the honour you do me ; but I
can promise you nothing before consulting my parents. Let
your family confer with mine and we shall see. As for me,"
I might have said to soften my reply, " I would have no
objection to you."
This answer, accompanied by one of my sweet smiles, with
my hand given him to kiss, would have sufficed.
And I should not have been compromised, and there would
have been no gossip in Rome, and all would have been
well
I think of clever things, but always too late, I should
have done better, no doubt, to have made a fine speech like
the one you have just read, but I should have economised
so much pleasure, and besides .... life is so short ! . . . .
and besides, there is always a — besides !
I did wrong in not making the above answer, but I was
really so much moved ; sensible people will say, certainly ;
and sentimental ones, no.
Wednesday, May 3\st. — Has it not been said that les
beaxtx esprits se rencontrent ? Just now I am reading La
Rochefoucauld, and I find many things in him which are
written here. And I, who prided myself on having said some
really new things, and they are things that have been known
already and said long ago. .... Then I read Horace, La
Bruyfcre, and some other author besides.
I am nervous about my eyes. I have been obliged to
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116 MAUIE basiikihtsefr
stop several times during my painting. I use them too much,
for I spend all my time in painting, reading, and writing.
I have spent this evenmg in going over my abstracts of
the classics, as it gave me something to do, and then I
discovered a very interesting work on Confucius, in a Latin
and French translation. I here's nothing like having one's
mind occupied ; work overcomes everything, especially brain
work.
r " I can't understand how women can pass their time in
knitting and embroidering, keeping their hands occupied and
their heads idle You must have a world of useless, even
dangerous thoughts, and if there is anything on the mind
the heart begins brooding over it, with lamentable results,
may-be.
If I were calm and happy I think I could do needlework
Lin order to think of my happiness.
No, in that case I should like to think of it with my eyes
shut, and should be incapable of doing anything.
Go and ask any of my acquaintances what they think
of me, and they will tell you that they know no girl as
gay, light-hearted, determined, and happy as I am ; for it
gives one much satisfaction to appear proud and radiant,
aloof in all ways ; and I willingly engage in some closely-
contested argument either grave or gay.
In these pages you see my inner self.
But outwardly I am quite another person.
You would say I had never known an annoyance, that I
am used to be obeyed by men and things.
Saturday, Jane 3rd. — Just now on coming out of my
dressing-room I had a superstitious terror.
I saw a woman in a long white gown at my side with a
light in her hand, and looking plaintively before her, with
her head a little on one side, like a phantom in some German
legend. Don't be alarmed, it was only my reflection in the
glass.
Oh, I fear, I fear that some bodily ill will be the out-
come of all these moral tortures !
Why does everything turn against me ?
O God forgive me for weeping ! There are people more
miserable than myself — there are people in want of bread,
whereas for me I sleep in a bed covered with lace ; there
are people who bruise their feet in walking over the stones
of the road, whereas for me, I walk on the softest carpets ;
people who have only the sky for a covering, whereas for me
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NICE, 1876. 117
I have above my head a canopy of blue satin. God,
perhaps thou art punishing me for these tears I shed ; then
why not stop my weeping ?
Besides all I have suffered already, I now feel personally
ashamed, ashamed in my souL
" Count A has asked her hand in marriage, but he
met with opposition, and has now altered his mind and with-
drawn his offer."
This is the way good impulses are rewarded.
Oh, if you knew what a sensation of despair takes hold
of me, what an infinite sadness when I look round me ! What
ever I touch perishes and disappears.
And my fancy continually conjures up the picture afresh,
and I fancy I near them saying, " Count A wished to
marry her," etc. etc.
Sunday, June 4>th. — After Jesus had cured the lunatic
His disciples asked Him, why those who had tried to cure
him had not succeeded ; and Jesus answered them, " It is
because of your want of faith, for verily I tell you that if you
only had as much faith as a grain of mustard seed you
would say to yonder mountain, ' Remove thyself from yonder
place to this/ and the mountain would be removed, and
nothing would be impossible to you."
On reading these words I felt suddenly enlightened, and
perhaps for the first time I believed in God. I rose quite
carried out of myself. I clasped my hands, I raised my eyes
to heaven, I smiled, I was in ecstasy.
I will never, never doubt again, not in order that I may
set something, but because I have been convinced, because I
believe.
Until my twelfth year they spoilt me, they did whatever I
pleased, but no one ever dreamed of educating me. When I
was twelve I wished for masters to teach me ; they gave
them me, and I drew up a plan of study. I owe everything to
myself. ...
After this fit of enthusiasm I was afraid of exaggerating
my feelings, afraid of the convent.
Oh no, I was transformed, I was joyous ; I slept soundly,
I woke up feeling calmer.
Monday, June 5th. — Dina, Mile. Colignon, and myself,
stopped out on the terrace in the moonlignt reflected in the
smooth sea, until ten o'clock. We discussed friendship and
what ought to be our relations with our fellow-men ; I made
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118 MARIE BA8HRIRTSEFF.
my confession of faith. The Sapogenikoffs suggested the
topic, as they have not yet written to us.
Colignon's admiration for them is well known ; indeed,
she cannot exist without adoring some one. She is the
most romantic and sentimental woman in the world. She
believes in friendship and in the happiness of trusting
others.
I, the opposite.
Just consider how unhappy I should be had I felt a great
friendship for the Sapogenikoffs.
We never regret having been kind, obliging, amiable, or
having acted on an impulse of the heart ; we only regret it
when we meet with ingratitude in return. And it is, indeed,
a great grief for a Kind-hearted person to discover that
sympathy and friendship have been wasted.
" Oh, Marie, I don't agree with you."
" But do listen, Mademoiselle. Here I have been for
the last hour exhausting my breath in explanations and
arguments, to find that after all my talk you are deaf to
what I've been saying.
" No doubt of it."
" I don't blame you, I don't blame any one ; because I don't
expect anything from anybody. On the contrary, the reverse
of ingratitude would have surprised me. I assure you it is
much safer to regard life and our fellow men as I do ; to give
them no place in your heart ; but use them as rungs in the
ladder by which you rise."
" Marie ! Marie ! "
"It can't be helped. You are differently constituted from
me ! Look here ! I am sure you have spoken ill of me to
the Sapogenikoffs and others. I am as certain of it as if I had
heard witn my own ears, and yet I trust you exactly as I used
to, and shall always do."
" It is your study of the philosophers which gives you this
distrust oi everybody."
" I don't distrust people, only I don't place my trust in
any one ; there's a great difference between the two."
" No, listen, Marie, you have no friendship for any-
body."
" But just reflect what it would be if I had ; supposing
that instead of taking Marie and Olga at their true worth, as
food-natured girls, ready to laugh with me and at me when my
ack was turned, as I at them ; supposing Olga and I had
become bosom friends. I write to her from Rome ; she
answers three words at the end of three weeks ; I write to her
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NICE, 1876. 119
again, and this time she doesn't answer at all. What do you
say to that ? And it's not the first instance."
" But what can you expect from your friends if you give
them nothing in return ? "
" We don t understand each other. I show them all kinds
of attention I am ready to do all I can for them ; let them
ask me anything they like, I should be happy to meet their
wishes ; but I don't give them my heart, for, believe me, it's
exasperating to give it for nothing."
" We can never feel exasperated when we have done what
is right — our duty, in short.
"Friendship is not a duty. You are neither doing a" 1
good nor a bad action in bestowing your friendship on
some one. Your friendships don't count because you have
such a constant craving for it ; but when it comes from the
heart, it is very distressing to find yourself repaid with
ingratitude."
" So much the worse for those who are ungrateful."
" How selfish that is ! I used to think formerly that I
loved the whole world ; but I see that this universal love is
only another name for universal indifference. I am full of
benevolence for my fellow men. I see they are all bad, and
this makes me feel supremety indulgent towards them. . . .
Have you read Epictetus ? It seems to me that one
must be a stoic as regards friendship. You receive a shock
and you can't help making a gesture of fear and surprise :
it does not depend on yourself; but it depends on you
to acquiesce in your first feelings. We cannot avoid
feeling certain preferences, but we can avoid acquiescing in
them/' "^
" Your reading will land you in atheism ; you won't believe
in anything at last, Marie."
" Oh no ! If you could read my thoughts you would not
say so."
" All philosophers are dangerous reading."
" Not if you have a sound mind. . . . But the truth is,"
I said, " when everything's said and done, there's only one
thing that's worth anythmg in life (I speak of our feelings),
and that's love."
" Yes."
" There's no greater pleasure in the world than to love and
be loved."
" That's true."
"And for goodness' sake don't let us go into subtleties
about it Let us only take the pleasure we receive, and
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120 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
. that which we give. Love is a divine thing in itself, I mean
as long as it lasts, it makes a man behave perfectly to-
wards the object he loves ; it gives him devotion, tenderness,
!>assion, sincerity, faithfulness, everything. We may, there-
ore, try to fathom love, but never inan. Man may be com-
Eared to a cavern. You always find damp or dirt at the
ottom, or else an opening, so that in reality there is no
bottom at all But all this doesn't prevent my loving my
neighbours."
" It is impossible to enjoy anything if one is indifferent to
it alL"
" No, no ; I am not indifferent, but I only value people
according to their merit"
Mamma has been crying to-day, and my aunt's face looks
troubled ; they have talked over all my misery.
I was coming home with my arms hanging down listlessly,
eves staring and knitted eyebrows ; I was choking in spite of
the blue sky, the bubbling fountain, the medlar trees covered
with fruit, and the pure air. I walked on without noticing
anything.
Why not suppose that I love him, unworthy as he is.
Heavens ! Wnat is the meaning of this man, and of this
love?
Everything is to be crushed in me, my self-love, my pride,
and my love.
Tuesday \ June 6th. — I have been reading over my account
of yesterday ; only misery and tears.
By two o'clock my spirits had risen sufficiently for me to
cease being angry, ana to enable me to merely sigh from
contempt. These thoughts are unworthy of me, we should
only remember injuries when we can be revenged. To think
of them otherwise is to give too much importance to people
who don't deserve it — it's degrading to oneself; but mdeed
I am not thinking of these people, I am thinking of myself,
my position, ana of the carelessness of my relations. For
that's the cause of all the trouble.
If the A 's had raised the question of religion, that
would only amuse me, and I really think that if they were to
beg me to accept Pietro I would not have him.
But it's the disgrace, the thought that things have been
said against us.
For this marriage has been all the talk, and, for certain,
people won't say that the refusal comes from me. Indeed,
they would be right. Did I not consent ? To gain time ; to
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NICE, 1876. 121
keep him hanging on in any case. I don't repent of it, I did
well, and if it's turned out badly it's not my fault.
We are not known ; people catch up a word here and there,
they gossip, exaggerate, invent ! and to be quite helpless — oh,
heavens !
Let us understand each other. I don't complain, I narrate
facts, that's all.
I have a profound contempt for the whole world, so
I can't complain or be angry with any one. Love, as I
imagined it, does not exist ! Tis only an imagination, an
ideal !
Is it possible that perfect modesty, perfect purity are only
words of my invention ? So when I went down to speak to
him on the eve of our leaving he simply looked upon it as a
rendezvous of the ordinary kind ?
When I leant upon his arm it was only with desire that
he trembled. When I looked at him in a grave and deeply
moved way like a pagan priestess of old, he saw nothing but a
woman and a rendezvous.
And did I indeed love him ? No ; or more correctly speak-
ing, I loved his love of me.
But as I am incanable of treachery in love, I felt for him
exactly as if I loved him myself.
It was an exaltation of the fancy ; you may call it fanaticism,
shortsightedness, stupidity — yes, stupidity !
If I were cleverer I should have understood the man's
character better.
He loved me as he could. It was for me to see that one
does not cast pearls before swine.
The punishment is hard ; my illusions are destroyed for a
long time to come, and I feel remorse for myself ; I was wrong
to think as I did.
I should have been as others are, vulgar and prosaic.
It is owing to my great vouth, I suppose, that I committed
these futilities. What is the meaning of these ideas of the
other world ? We understand them no longer, for the world
has not changed. Now I am falling into the common mis-
take and accusing the world on account of the villainy of one
man. Because one man turns out to be base I deny all great-
ness of mind and soul.
I deny that man's love because he has done nothing for
it, Even if he had been threatened with being disinherited
and cursed, could that have prevented his writing to me ? No,
no. He is a coward.
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122 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Thursday, June 8th. — Books of philosophy astound me.
They are productions of the imagination altogether upsetting.
By reading much of them in time I should get used to it, but
at present they take my breath away.
What do you say to Fourier ? And then look at Jouffroy's
system : " The soul goes outward under the pressure of sen-
sation, and then retires within herself carrying back the
object."
It's astonishing, but it's nonsense. When the fever of
reading is upon me I go mad over it, and it seems as if I
could never read enough ; I would like to know everything,
and my head seems bursting, and then again only ashes and
chaos arc around me.
I am all in a fever in my haste to read Horace. Oh ! to
think that there are chosen ones, who enjoy themselves,
who rush about, who dress, and dance, and gossip,
and laugh, and love, who, in short, plunge into all the
delights of a worldly life, while I, I am rusting in
Nice!
I am pretty resigned on the whole, as long as I don't
remember that we live but once. Oh, just to think that we
live but once, and life is so short !
When I think of it I am like one possessed, and my
brain seethes with despair.
We live but once, and I am losing this precious life
hidden in the house, seeing nobody !
Wo live but once ! and they spoil my life !
We live but once ! and they make me lose my time
miserably! And the days are passing, passing, never to
return, and abridging my life !
We live but once ! and must this short life be still further
shortened, spoilt, stolen — yes, stolen by infamous circum-
stances.
Oh, Lord !
f~ Friday, June 9th. — In reading about my stay at Rome,
and my perturbed state at Pietro's disappearance, I am quite
surprised at having written with so niucn vivacity.
I read and shrug my shoulders. I ought not to be
astonished, knowing how easily my fancy is touched.
There are moments when I aon't know what I hate or
what I love, what I desire or what I fear. Then all be-
comes indifferent, and I try to understand things, and the
consequence is such a whirl of excitement in my brain
that 1 have to shake my head and stop my ears, preferring
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mOE, 1876. 123
even a state of stupor to this self-analysis and heartj
searching.
Saturday, June 10th. — "Do you know," said I to the
doctor, "that I spit blood, and ought to be taken care
of?"
"Oh, Mademoiselle," said Walitzky, "if you persist in
sitting up every night till three o'clock in the morning you
will get no end of diseases."
" And why do you think I go to bed so late ? Because
my mind is not at rest. Give me peace and I will sleep
peacefully."
"You might have had it. You had an opportunity at
Rome."
" With whom ? "
" With A , in getting married without changing your
religion."
" Oh, friend Walitzky , how shocking ! With such a man
as A ! Are you thinking of what you are saying ? A
man who has no will or opinions of his own. How can you
talk such nonsense, really ? '
And I began to laugh softly.
" He doesn't come ; he does not write," I went on ; " he
is a poor child whose importance we have exaggerated. No,
my friend, he isn't a man, and we did wrong to think
so."
I said these last words with the same calmness with which
I had spoken all along, from the conviction 1 had of having
said what was true and just.
/ went to ray room, and all at once I savj evei*y thing
with extraordinary clearness. I understood, at last, how
wrong I had been in allowing a kiss, only one, but still a
kiss ; to appoint a rendezvous at the bottom of the stairs.
I understood that if I had not gone into the passage, nor to
any oilier place, if I had not sought this rendezvous, the
man would leave had more respect for me, and I should, have
been spared my vexation and tears.
(How I liKe myself for saying this ! How charming of
me ! Paris, 1877.)
Always stick to this principle; I lost sight of it, and
committed a folly owing to the attraction of novelty, the ease
with which I take fancies into my head, and my want of
experience.
Oh, how could I have understood it all since !
Ah ! my good friends, don't blame me. One is young and
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124 MABIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
makes mistakes. A has taught me how to behave to
my admirers.
To live a hundred years, to learn a hundred years !
Oh, how plain it all seems, how calm I feel, and how
cured I am of love !
I mean to go out every day, to be gay and hopeful.
" Ah ! sou f elice ;
Ah ! son rapita ! "
I am singine " Mignon," and my heart is full.
How beautiful the moon looks reflected on the sea ! How
adorable is Nice.
I love the whole world ! All the faces I see passing look
smiling and amiable.
It's over, I said that couldn't last I will live in peace !
I will go to Russia ; that would improve our position. I
would take my father to Rome.
Monday, June 12th ; Tuesday, June 13th. — I who wanted
to live seven lives at once, and can't even get the quarter ot
one. I am fettered.
God will take pity on me ; but I feel weak, and I think I
shall die.
It's as I say. Either I must have all that God has given
me ... . the power of perceiving and understanding — and
then I would deserve to have it — or I shall die.
For my Maker, not being able to grant me everything
without injustice, will not be cruel enough to keep a wretch
alive to whom He has given understanding and the ambition
of what she understands.
God has not made me as I am without some intention.
He cannot have given me the faculty of seeing all to torture
me by giving me nothing. This supposition is not in
harmony with the nature of God, who is all goodness and
mercy.
I will have things, or I shall die. It's as I say. Let His
will be done ! I love Him, I believe in Him ; I beseech Him
to forgive me when I have done wrong.
He has given me understanding to satisfy it if I show
myself worthy of it If I prove unworthy He will make
me die.
Wednesday, June 14th. — Besides the triumph I have
procured to the little Italian fellow, which is very annoying
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NTCE, 1876. 125
to me, I also perceive the scandal which the affair has
caused.
I never expected an adventure of this kind ; I could never
have foreseen it I never imagined such a thing happening
to me. I knew such things did happen, but I did not believe
it; I did not picture it to myself, as one doesn't picture
death if one has never seen a corpse. O my life, my poor,
poor life ! "
If I am as pretty as I say, why don't people love me ?
They look at me ! They are enamoured ! But they don't
love me. I who have such a great need to be loved !
Novels have turned my Drain ! No, no ; I read novels
because my brain is already turned. I read over again the
old books. I look with lamentable eagerness for the scenes
and speeches of love. I devour them because it seems to
me that I love, and because it seems to me that I am
not loved. I love; yes, because I won't give it another
name.
Well, no; it isn't that which I want. I want to go
into the world ; I want to shine in it ; I want to occupy
a supreme position. I want to be rich ; I want to have
pictures, palaces, jewels. I want to be the centre of a circle
that shall be political, brilliant, literary, philanthropic, and
frivolous. I want all that .... may God give it to
me !
God ! do not punish me for these wildly ambitious
thoughts !
Are there not people who are born in the midst of it all,
and who find it quite natural, and never thank God
at all?
Am I guilty in wishing to be great ?
No ; for I will use my greatness in thanking God, and
in wishing to be happy !
. People who are satisfied with a modest and comfortable
home, are they less ambitious than I ? No ; for they can't
see beyond.
He who is content to pass his life humbly in the bosom
of his family, is he modest and moderate in his desires, owing
to his virtue, his resignation, and his wisdom ? No, no, no !
It makes him happy to be so ; he finds his greatest happiness
in this retired existence. If he does not wish it, it is be-
cause it would make him wretched. There are others who
dare not ; as for them, they are not wise — they are cowards !
for they secretly covet things, but nevertheless remain where
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126 MABTE BA8HKIHTSEFF.
they are, not from Christian humility, but owing to their
timid and incapable natures. O God, if my conclusions are
are wrong, enlighten me, forgive me, and have mercy upon
me!
Thursday, Jane 22nd. — I used to joke when people
praised up Italy, and ask myself why they made such a to-do
about that country, and why it was spoken of as a country
apart. But so it is. We breathe more freely there. For
life is different there — large, free, mad, fantastic, languid ; at
once burning and soft as its sun, its sky, its campagna. So
I soar on my poet's wings (for at times I am wholly a poet
and nearly always by some side of my nature), and 1 would
exclaim with Mignon :
" Italia, reggio di del ;
Sol beato ! "
Saturday, June 2Uh. — I was waiting to be called to the
dejeuner, when the doctor came, quite out of breath, to tell
me they had just received a letter from Pietro. I blushed
very much, but did not raise my eyes from the book I was
reading.
" Well, well, what does he write ? "
" They would not give him any money ; however, I don't
know ; you had better see for yourself."
I took good care not to l>e too eager ; I was ashamed to
show so much interest.
I was the first at table, quite against my usual habit —
eating .... most impatiently, but saying nothing.
" Is it true what the doctor has told me?" I asked at
length.
" Yes," replied my aunt ; " A has written to him."
" Where is the letter, doctor ? "
" In my room."
" Give it to me."
This letter is dated the tenth June ; but as A simply
addressed it Nizza, it travelled all the way to Nizza, in Italy,
before getting here.
" I nave been trying all this time," he writes, " to get
leave of my parents to come here ; but they absolutely refuse
to hear of it." So that, in short, it's imnossible for him to
come ; and all that remains to him is the nope of the future,
which is always uncertain.
The letter is in Italian, and they expected to have it
translated. I said not a word, but, gathering up my train
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NICE, 1876. 127
with affected slowness, so that they should not think I was
running away choking, left the room and crossed the garden
with outward calm and hell in my heart
This is not an answer to a friend's telegram from Monaco,
sent as a joke. It's written to me by way of advice. To me !
to me, who had placed myself on an imaginary eminence !
.... It is to me he says it !
Die ? God forbids it ! Turn singer ? I have neither
sufficient health nor patience.
What, what am 1 to do then ?
I threw myself into an easy-chair, and, with eyes fixed on
vacancy, tried to understand the letter — to think of some-
thing. ....
" Will you go to the clairvoyant ? " shouted mamma
from the garden.
" Yes," I replied, getting up stiffly. " When ? "
" This minute."
Anything, anything not to remain alone ; not to go out of
my mind ; anything to escape from myself.
The clairvoyant, we find, has gone.
The ride in the heat was neither good nor bad for
me. I took a handful of cigarettes and my journal, intend-
ing to poison my lungs while writing tne most inflam-
matory pages ; but all strength of will seemed to have
left me.
As in a dream I walked slowly to my bed, quite stiff and
straight, and lay down just as I was, drawing the lace curtains
together.
Impossible to describe my suffering ; indeed, there comes
a moment when one cannot even complain. Crushed as I am,
what should I complain of ?
I find no words to express my profound disgust and
discouragement Love ! ! No, I have never known it. This
then is the truth ! that that man has never loved, but looked
upon marriage as a means of emancipating himself. I won't
say anything of his protestations ; I never mentioned them, for
I never took theui quite seriously. I don't say he was
lying ; we nearly always believe ourselves what we say at the
moment — but afterwards ? . . . .
And in spite of everything, in spite of the Gospel, I am
burning to be revenged. I shall take my time, never fear, and
I will be revenged.
"Chi lungo a tempo aspetta
Vede al fin la sua vendetta."
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128 MARIE BASHKI11TSEFF.
I went to my room, wrote a few lines, and then, suddenly
losing heart, began to weep. Oh, after all I am only a
child ! All these sorrows are too heavy for me to bear quite
alone, and I thought of waking my aunt, but she would
think that I was weeping for love, and I couldn't bear
that.
To say that love has nothing at all to do with my state is
the bare truth. I loathe it at present.
A mere boy, a laughing-stock lined with a scape-
grace, and covered with a Jesuit ; a child, a Paul ! And
that's the thing I loved ! Bah ! Why not ? Don't men
fall in love with a cocotte, a grisette, a country-wench,
any sort of creature ? Great men and great kings have
loved nonentities, and have not been discrowned on that
account.
I seemed to be going mad with impotent rage ; all my
nerves were on the rack, and I began to sing ; that calms
you.
If I were to sit up all night I could never say what I
want to; and if I did, it would be nothing new, only the
same things I have said already.
All the things I saw and heard in Rome come back to me,
and in meditating on that singular mixture of devotion and
libertinism, of religion and rascality, of submission and
depravity, of prudery, haughty pride, and lowest meanness, I
said to myself, " Rome is certainly a unique city, at once
singular, savage, and refined."
Everything in it is different from other towns. You seem
to be in another planet.
And no doubt Rome, which has had a fabulous origin, a
fabulous prosperity, and a fabulous decline, should be some-
thing striking and out of the common, both morally and
physically.
The cit/y of God — I mean to say the city of priests.
Since the king is there everything has changed, but only
amongst the Liberals; the priests always remain the same
— that's why I never understood anything of what A
used to tell me, because I always regarded his affairs as
fables, or as entirely peculiar, whereas they were simply
Roman.
Why must I have come across this inhabitant of the
moon, of the old moon, of old Rome, I mean the Cardinal's
nephew !
But it's interesting at least to me, who love the extra-
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NICE, 1876. 129
ordinary. It's original. Well, it's very strange all the same
— Rome and the Romans.
Instead of giving vent to expressions of astonishment, it
would be much better if I were to tell what I know of Rome
and the Romans.
You must know that when Pietro was at death's door six
years ago, his mother made him eat slips of paper, on which
this word was written over and over again, Maria, Maria,
Maria. She did this that the Virgin might cure him. It's
perhaps on that account he fell in love with a Maria — a very
earthly one however. Besides that, they made him drink holy
water instead of medicine.
But that's nothing. Little bv little, no doubt, I shall
recall all I heard, and you will find some very curious
things.
The Cardinal, for example, is by no means a good man,
and on being told that his nephew was trying to amend in the
monastery, he laughed, saying it was absurd, for a man of three-
and-twenty did not suddenly become good at the end of eight
days passed in a convent ; that if he seemed so, he wanted
money, no doubt.
Friday, June 30th. — How I pity old men, especially since
grandpapa has become quite blind ; I am so sorry for him.
To-day I had to lead him down-stairs, and feed him myself.
He is ashamed of it, owing to a kind of self-love which has
always made him wish to appear young, and it had to bo
done with a great deal of management. But he accepted my
services very gratefully, for I had offered them with a kina
of brusque persistence, mixed with tenderness, which people
can't resist
Sunday, Jvly 2nd. — Oh, how hot it is ! and how dull !
No, I am wrong in calling it dull ; one cannot be dull with so
many mental resources as I have. I am not dull, because I
can read, sins' paint, and muse to myself, but I am restless
and depressea.
Is my poor youth to be spent between the dining-room
and petty domestic worries ? A woman lives from sixteen to
forty. I shudder at the thought of losing even a month
of my life.
What is the good of my having studied, of having tried to
know more than other women, of priding myself on knowing
all the branches of learning that are attributed to famous men
in their biographies ?
k 2
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130 MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF.
I have some idea of them all, but I have only really gone
into history, literature, and natural philosophy, so as to read
everything about them — everything that is interesting. As a
matter of fact, I find everything interesting that I put my
heart into, and this sets me on fire.
What then is the good of my having studied and thought ?
Why endowed with wit, beauty, and a voice ? To grow
mouldy, to be bored to death ? If I were ignorant and coarse,
perhaps I should be happy.
Not a single living soul to talk to! A girl of sixteen
cannot be quite satisfied with the family circle, especially
when she is a girl like me.
Of course grandpapa is clever. But then he is old and
blind, and he is everlastingly quarrelling with his man
Triphon and grumbling about the ainner.
Mamma has plenty of esprit, but not much information ;
her manners are not polished, she hasn't any tact, and her
mind has got dull and rusty through her never talking
about anything but the servants, my health, and the
dogs.
Auntie is rather better. She even rather impresses you
when you don't know her well.
Have I ever mentioned their ages ? Mamma would
still be a fine woman if it were not for her bad health.
Auntie is a few years younger, but she looks the elder
of the two. She is not good-looking, but tall and well pro-
portioned.
Amor* decre8cit ubiqxw crescere nan j>os»it
That is why lovers, when once they have felt perfectly
happy, begin imperceptibly to love each other less and less,
ana end at last by drifting apart altogether.
I am going away to-morrow. I can't say how sorry I am
to leave Sice.
All these preparations for the journey rather damp my
resolution.
I have selected the music to take with me, and some books,
the encyclopaedia, a volume each of Plato, Dante, Ariosto, and
Shakespeare ; also a number of English novels by Bulwer,
Collins, and Dickens.
I was rude to auntie, and then I went out on the terrace.
I stopped out m the garden till dusk. How lovely the twilight
is with the sea and space for background, and these luxuriant
# It is dolor in Syrus, but I say Amor, because the maxim is equally
applicable to both.
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NICE, 1876. 131
plants and thick foliaged trees ! And then, by way of contrast,
the bamboos and palm-trees. The fountain, the grotto with
its little waterfall trickling from rock to rock before falling
into the basin. All rouna, the bushy trees give the spot a
look of peacefulness and mystery, which makes one lazy and
sets one dreaming.
Why does water always make one dreamy ?
I stopped in the garden and looked at a stone vase in
which a lovely canna rose was iust unfolding. I thought how
pretty my white dress and leafy crown must look in that en-
trancing garden.
Is mat all I am ever to do in life — dress myself carefully,
put leaves in my hair, and think about the effect ?
Well, candidly, if other people were to read me I think
they would consider me a bore. I am still so young, I know
so little of life !
I cannot speak with the authority or the assurance of
writers who profess — what presumption !— to know men, to lay
down laws and to bind their maxims on other people.
My maid is here with a dress for me to wear to-morrow ;
it reminds me of my departure.
I went back to my room, followed by all the dogs. I drew
my white trunk close to the table. Ah, my chief regret ! . . .
my diary ... it is part of myself. Every day I have been in
the habit of running through the pages of one of my manu-
script books, when 1 wished to recall Konie or Nice, or some-
thing older still !
The night was too lovely !
And on this my last evening, iust as if it had done it on
purpose, the moon shone out cold and clear, illuminating
all the beauties of my town. Mine ! Of course it is, my
town. No one is likely to dispute the possession with me.
I am too insignificant
Besides, does not the sun belong to everybody ? I went
into the dining-room. The moonlight poured in through
the large open windows and flooded the white stuccoed
wall and the white chair covers. We can't help feeling
melancholy on such a summer night, whether we will
or no.
I went twice round the room. I felt a lack of something
or other, and yet I was not unhappy. Far from it. I did
not want anything. I should have liked always to feel so
gentle, so good. My soul expanded under this feeling of
nappy calm ; it seemed as though it would enwrap me all
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132 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
round. 1 sat down at the piano, and let my white tapering
fingers wander over the keys. But still there was something
wanting, some one perhaps. .
I am going to Russia. . . . How willingly I ought to
starting, on the day I have looked forward to so im-
go to bed early to-night, so as to shorten the time before
patiently !
I am drawn towards Rome. . . . Rome is a city one
doesn't understand at first. The first few days I was there
I saw nothing but the Pincio and the Corso. I did not
understand the simple beauty of a country treeless and
houseless, yet surcharged with associations. Nothing but a
plain swelling like the sea in a storm, dotted here and there
with flocks of sheep with their shepherds, just as Virgil
describes.
For it is only our demoralised class of society which
undergoes such numberless transformations. Simple people,
unartificial people, do not change, and are the same in every
country.
Side by side with these vast plains, furrowed with aque-
ducts whose straight lines cut the horizon and produce the
most thrilling effect, we see the finest relics of barbarism and
civilisation.
Though why should I say barbarism ? It is we modern
pigmies, in our petty pride, who consider ourselves more
civilised, because we were born last.
No description can give a correct idea of those lovely and
noble lands, those lands of sunshine, beauty, soul, genius, art ;
of those lands which have fallen so low and remained
prostrate so long that it seems impossible they should ever
rise again.
When people talk of glory, soul, or beauty, they are only
talking of love. They only talk of glory and beauty in order
to make a fittingly handsome frame for that picture which is
always the same yet ever new.
The idea of leaving my diary here hurts me.
r Poor diary, it contains all my strivings towards the light,
all those aspirations which would be considered those ot an
imprisoned genius if they were crowned in the end with
success. If, on the other hand, I never come to anything, they
will be looked upon as the conceited ravings of a commonplace
person.
To marry and have children ! Any washerwoman can
do that
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NICE, 1876. 133
Unless I could find a civilised and enlightened man, or one
who is pliant and very much in love.
What do I want ? Oh, you know well enough. I wanti
Glouy.
This diary certainly won't give it me. It will only be
published after my death, for I cannot lay myself quite hare
to the world in my lifetime. Besides, it ought only to be
complementary to a distinguished life.
A distinguished life ! A will-o'-the-wisp produced by
isolation, historical readings, and a too lively imagina-
tion ! . . .
I don't know any language really well. My native tongue
I merely know because it was spoken at home ; and I left
Russia when I was ten years old.
I speak English and Italian well, I think, and write in
French, and I believe I still make mistakes in spelling !
And I am often at a loss for a word, and then I hnd my
thought easily and gracefully expressed by some celebrated
writer. It is aggravating beyond anything !
Take this for instance, " Whatever may be said to the
contrary, travelling is one of the saddest pleasures of life ;
when you really feel at ease in some strange town, it is be-
cause you are oeginning to make it a home.'
It was the author of Corinne who said that. And how
many times have I sat, pen in hand, losing patience because I
cannot make my meaning clear ! how often have I finished
by bursting into some such expression as this — " I hate new
towns ; what an infliction new faces are ! "
We all think alike, it seems ; the difference consisting in
our way of expressing it : just as all people are composed of
the same materials, yet now vastly they differ in features,
height, complexion, and character !
And some day or other I shall be sure to meet with
this very idea, only expressed cleverly, eloquently, and at-
tractively.
What then am I ? Nothing. What do I want to be ?
Everything.
My head is tired. Let me rest it after all these yearnings
for the Infinite. Let me think about A . Ah, still
harping on him ! A mere child, a wretch !
No ; Is it not possible that he does not altogether love
me?
He loves me as I love him. Oh, well then, it is not worth
talking about .... No ; the chief thing is that I am leaving
my diary behind.
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134 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
I have finished this iiianuscript-book. When I get to
Paris I will begin another, which will probably do for Russia
as well.
No one will take any notice of a manuscript-book at the
Custom house.
I am taking Pietro's last letter.
I have just re-read it. He is unhappy ! But why hasn't
he got more spirit ?
I can speak of it quite coolly ; yes, I in my most excep-
tionally despotic position — but he ? . . . . Those Romans !
It is a most unheard-of thing.
Poor Pietro ! My future fame prevents me from thinking
seriously about him. It seems to rebuke me for the thoughts
which I bestow on him.
Dear goddess, make yourself easy. Pietro is only a
diversion, a strain of music under which to conceal my
soul's lament. And yet I am angry with myself for thinking
about him, because he is useless to me ! He can't even serve
as the first rung of the divine ladder on whose topmost round
rests satisfied ambition.
Grand Hotel, Paris.
July 4fth.
Amor, ut lacryma, ocido oritur, in pectus eadit.
Publius Syrus.
Wednesday, July 5th. — Yesterday, at two o'clock, I left
Nice with my aunt and my maid Amelia Chocolat has hurt
his feet, and will be sent on in a couple of days.
Mamma was crying over my departure for three days before
I left, so I have been very gentle and affectionate with her.
The loves of husbancls, lovers, friends, and children, come
and go, for all those relationships can occur ttvice.
But there can only be one mother, and a mother is the
only being on whom we may absolutely rely, whose love
is disinterested, devoted, and eternal. Perhaps I felt all
chis for the first time when I was bidding her good-bye.
And how scornful I felt towards my loves for H , L — — ,
and A ! How paltry it seems to me now ! Nothing at all.
Grandpapa nearly melted into tears. But then there is
always something solemn in an old man's farewells. He
blessed me and gave me a picture of the Madonna.
Mamma and Dina came with us to the station.
As usual, I looked as cheerful as possible at starting, but
I felt very much distressed all the same.
Mamma did not cry, but I could feel how unhappy she
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PARIS, 1876. 135
was, and a flood of regret came over me at parting for having
so often been harsh towards her. However, as I looked at her
from the carriage window, I reflected that I had never been
harsh out of perversity, but because I was so sad and
despairing myself, and now I am going away so that I may
change our life altogether.
When the train nad started, I felt that my eyas were full
of tears, and I involuntarily compared this departure with the
last I made — that from Roma
Were my feelings weaker then, because I was not leaving
so great a sorrow — a mother's sorrow — behind ?
I at once began to read Corinne. The description of Italy
is most fascinating to me. And what a pleasure to be able to
see Rome once more through my author's eyes 1 — Rome, my
beautiful Rome, with all its treasures !
I admit, frankly, that I did not understand Rome at first.
What impressed me most was the Coliseum. If I knew how
to express my thoughts, I should have uttered a crowd of
beautiful ideas that came into my head, when I was stand-
ing speechless in the precinct of the Vestal Virgins, opposite
the Emperor's.
We reached Paris at half-past one. It must be admitted
that if Paris is not the most beautiful of towns, she is, at any
rate, the most winning and charming.
Has not Paris also the history of greatness, decay, revolu-
tion, glory, and terror ? And yet all pales before Rome, for
Rome was the mother of all the other nations.
Rome swallowed up Greece, the nursery of civilisation, art,
heroes, and poets. As to architecture, sculpture, or thought,
which has since been developed, is it aught but imitation of
the ancients ?
With us there is no originality except in what is
media3vaL Oh, why, why is it that the world is effete ? Is it
that the spirit of man has already done all that it is cap-
able of doing ?
Monday, July 10th. — It is all very well for the novels to
say the contrary, but it is quite true that power and glory
(inferior things that this world can give) do set a halo round
what we love, and even almost make us love what is
distasteful to us.
So true is this that, notwithstanding the outcry of all the
sentimentalists, it is quite clearly demonstrated that the
strongest minds are not proof against plausible advantages,
against outside show.
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136 . MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Putting that aside, how does it look from the side of the
affections ?
How horrible it is that a trifling cause can separate two
persons, can make one suffer the agonies of doubt, estrange-
ment, and unhappiness ! all on account of money. I despise
money, but I admit that it is very necessary.
When we are physically well, our brain and affections are
unfettered. Then we can love disinterestedly, without re-
servation and without sordid ideas.
Why have so many women loved kings ?
Because a king is a type of power, and though a woman
loves to rule, she needs something strong to lean upon,
just as a frail and delicate plant entwmes itself round a tree.
Now I love A ; but my love is constantly shaken, now
by doubt, now by fear.
At one moment I am degraded in my own self-respect,
humiliated by my undignified dependence ; I might nave
loved him very much, witn a strong and enduring love. In-
stead of that I am buffeted by a feelmg which drags me now
this way, now that, and which makes me doubtful, undecided,
mercenary, and wretched.
^ Oh, don't impute mean and sordid motives to me !• I
don't love a man because he is rich, but because he is free,
unhampered in his actions. I should like to be rich, because
then I shouldn't have to think about money at all, should not
have to submit to this brutal but irresistible force of circum-
stances.
I was just going to begin again, but all I can say re-
solves itself into this : Perfect moral well-being can only
exist when the material side of us is satisfied, and when
we are not forced to remember that we have an empty
stomachy
When we love the passion is at white heat, carries all
before it, but only for a moment, and afterwards you become
more conscious of all I have been saying. I didn t read it in
books, nor have I experienced it myself But let those who
have lived, who are no longer sixteen years old like me, put
aside that false shame which prevents them from confessing
things of the kind, let them tell the truth for once, and say
whether I am not right in what I am trying to prove. //'
people are vontented with little it only proven that they don't
see furtlier than their noses.
Thursday, Jidy 13th. — In the evening we go to see
Countess M. She talks marriage to me.
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PARIS, 1876. 137
" Oh no," I said, " I don't want to be married ; I want to be
a singer. Now, dear Countess, I'll tell you what we must do.
I will disguise myself like a poor girl, and you and my aunt will
take me to the best singing master in Paris, and tell him I
am a little Italian whom you arq interested in, and who shows
promise in singing."
" Dear me ! " said the Countess, " what next ? "
" You see," I went on calmly ; " that is the only way in
which I shall be able to learn the truth about my voice.
And I have a last year's frock which will do beautifully."
And I pursed up my mouth.
" Very well/ said the Countess ; " it is a brilliant idea."
Father sends a telegram to say he is expecting me impa-
tiently. Uncle ^tienne sends another to say that he will
meet me at the frontier. Uncle Alexander sends a third
to say that the cholera is in Russia. I am not in the
least afraid. I am no fatalist, nor do I believe in predesti-
nation. I firmly believe that nothing happens without the
will of God. If God intends me to die now, nothing in the
world can hinder it And if He intends me to live long,
no epidemic that ever raged can do me any harm.
Auntie has come to beg me to go to bed, because it is
one o'clock.
" Oh, do go away ! " I said ; " if you worry me I shall go
out of my mind."
God ! what is this weight on my mind ? Paris ! yes,
it is Paris, the common meeting-ground of genius, glory,
everything. Light, vanity, dizziness !
God, give me the life I would have, or let me die !
Thursday, July 14th. — I have been taking great care of
myself all the morning. I cough as little as I can ; I keep
still ; I am baked with the heat, and parched with thirst,
and yet I don't drink to quench it.
iSot before one o'clock did I have a cup of coffee and
an egg. The egg had so much salt in it that it was like
eating salt accompanied by egg rather than egg accompanied
by salt.
1 have an idea that salt is good for the throat.
I put on a plain grey cambric dress, a black lace jichu,
and a orown hat. When I was dressed I thought I looked
so nice that I should always like to be dressed like
that
We started at last, picked up Madame on the way, and
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138 MAEIE BA8HKTRT8EFF.
reached the door of 27, Chauss^e d'Antin. This is the
house of M. Wartel, the first singing-master in Paris.
Madame M had already called on him, and spoken
of a girl from Italy, who had come to her with the very best
recommendations. Her relatives wished to know what course
to take with regard to her musical career.
M. Wartel said he would see her on the following day,
and with considerable trouble appointed four o'clock for the
interview.
We reached the house at three o'clock, and were shown
into an outer room. We were just going further, but were
stopped by a servant, who would not let us pass till we said
that M. Wartel was expecting us.
We were then shown into a small room leading into
another, where the professor was giving a lesson.
" The interview is at four o'clock, madame," said a servant
entering.
" I know ; but perhaps you will allow this young lady to
sit here and listen.'
" With pleasure, madame."
So we sat there for an hour and listened to the English-
woman's singing. She had a frightful voice, and such a style !
I never heard anybody sing like that
I indignantly recalled to mind Faccioti, Tosti, and Creschi.
The walls of our waiting-room were covered with portraits
of well-known artistes, with the most affectionate inscrip-
tions underneath.
Four o'clock struck at last That Englishwoman de-
parted.
I began to tremble, and my strength oozed out of me.
Wartel beckoned to me to go in.
I did not understand.
" Come in, come in, mademoiselle ! "
So in I went, followed by my two chaperons. I asked
them to go back into the waiting-room, for they made me
nervous, and I was really frightenea
Wartel was an old man, but the accompanist youthful
" Can you read music ? "
" Yes, Monsieur."
" What can you sing ? "
" I can't sing any song, Monsieur, but I can sing a scale
or an exercise."
"Take an exercise, Monsieur" (to the accompanist)
" What is your voice ? Soprano ? "
" No, Monsieur, contralto."
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PARIS, 1876. 139
" Well, we shall see."
Wartel, remaining seated in his arm-chair, signed to me to
begin. So I attacked an exercise, trembling at hrst and then
infuriated, but at my ease by the time it was ended, for I did
not take my eyes ofi' the masters immensely long face. It is a
remarkable face.
" Oh," he said, " yours is more of a mezzo-soprano. Its pitch
will rise."
" What is your opinion, Monsieur ? " said the two ladies
coming in.
" She has some voice, but of course you will understand
that she will have to work very hard. Her voice is very
young as yet, but it will grow, and it will develop pari jmhzu
with the young lady herself. There is good material, there is
good compass, but she must work."
"Then you think, Monsieur, that it is worth while to
cultivate it ? "
" Yes, yes, if she works."
" Her voice will be a good one ? " asked Madame M
" It will be a good one," replied the man coolly, in his off-
hand and reticent way. " But it must be developed, pitched,
practised, and of course all that means business."
" I sang badly," I got out at last, " I was nervous."
"Ah, well, Mademoiselle, of course you must get accustomed
to control that nervousness ; it would be entirely out of place
on the stage."
But I was delighted with what he said. It was an im-
mense deal to say to a poor girl who would not bring him any
profit
Accustomed as I am to flattery, the man's grave and
magisterial way of treatment seemed chilly, but I divined that
he was satisfied.
He had said, " There is good material, you must work
hard." That is splendid to begin with.
All this time the accompanist was eyeing me all over,
minutely examining my figure, arms, hands, and face. I
lowered my eyes and reddened as I asked the ladies to go back
to the other room.
Wartel sat down, and I stood in front of his arm-chair.
" Have you taken lessons ? "
" No, Mxmsieur, never ; at least, only ten lessons."
" Yes, you must work. . . . Can you sing a ballad ? "
" I know a Neapolitan song, but I have not the music with
me."
" Mignon / " cried my aunt from the other room.
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140 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
" Good. Sing Migiion."
While I was singing a slight look of surprise appeared on
Wartel's face, which had been at first merely attentive ; then
he looked astonished, and at last relaxed sufficiently to
bend his head to the time, smile pleasantly, and join in
himself.
" H — m — m — m ! " said the accompanist.
" Yes, yes," nodded the maestro.
I sang on, though very nervous.
" Do keep still ; don't move ; breathe deeply ! "
" Well, Monsieur ? " we three chorused.
" Ah, that is very nice. Let her do a " (Oh, bother
it, I have forgotten the word.)
The accompanist made me do the , the name of it
doesn't matter ; he made me run over all my notes.
" Up to *i" he said to the old gentleman.
" Yes, it is a mezzo-soprano ; all the better, all the better
for the stage."
I was still standing.
" Sit down, Mademoiselle," said the accompanist, measuring
me from head to foot.
So I sat down on the edge of the sofa.
" Well, Mademoiselle," said the severe Wartel, " you must
work hard and you will succeed."
He made several observations, in that impassive way of his,
about the stage, singing, and study.
" How long will it take before her voice is formed ? " asked
Madame M .
" Of course, Madame, you will understand that that depends
on the student herself. Those who are clever take less time
than others."
"That child has quite as much ability as she need
have."
" Really ? All the better. It will be easier for her."
n But how long will it take ?
" To form her voice properly, to render it perfect, three
years. . . . Yes, three years of hard work. Quite three
years ! "
I was holding my tongue and vowing vengeance
against that horrid accompanist He looked as if he was
thinking, "That girl is well-grown. She is pretty. What
fun ! "
After a few more remarks, we got up to go. Wartel
remained seated, but held out his hand to me kindly. I bit
my lips.
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PARIS, 1876. 141
" Look here," I said, when we reached the door, " let us go
back and tell him the truth."
My aunt proffered her card. We went back laughing, in
high spirits. I told the severe mamtro the trick I had played
him.
I shall never forget the accompanist's face when he heard
it Revenge is sweet
" If you had talked a little more," said Wartel, " I should
have known you for a Russian."
" Yes, Monsieur," said I, " I knew you would. That is why
I didn't talk much."
The two ladies explained how I had wished to' learn the
truth from his famous lips. " It is just what I told you,
ladies ; she has a voice, she must have talent too."
"I mean to have talent, Monsieur; in fact, I have some
already. You shall see."
I was so delighted that I agreed to walk all the way to the
Grand Hotel
" Set your mind at ease, my dear," said the countess, " I
watched the professor's face from the other room. When you
sang Mignon he was really surprised, wasn't he, Madame ?
He hummed it himself— just fancy a man like him doing so !
— with a little Italian before him whom he was prepared to
criticise as severely as he could." ....
We dined together. I was in high spirits, -and showed
myself as I really am. All my whims and crotchets came
out, all my ambitions and hopes.
After dinner we lingered for some time on the step in
front of the door to enjoy the fresh evening air and the sight
of the countless numbers of people who came and went
through the courtyard.
I must study under Wartel. And Rome ?
We will see about it.
It is getting late. I will tell it all to-morrow.
Sunday, July \§th. — When I think about the good
fortune of Mademoiselle K , Princess de S , all my
worst feelings revive in me. I am envious !
That gin, she was nothing at all at Nice, with her vulgar
red cheeks and big Moldavian nose !
Of course, she is good looking, but it is a style of beauty
that I should like to nave in a lady's maid in some outlandish
costume, a woman to put my boots on, and to fan me with a
large fan when I am hot iNow she is a queen, made queen
in a critical moment, such a moment as would be invaluable
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142 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
to ambitious girls. Certainly, her place in history is settled.
What about ine !
Tuesday, July ISth. — I have had some very extraordinary
experiences to-day. We paid a visit to the celebrated
clairvoyant, Alexis.
He seldom gives consultations now except on the subject
of health.
We were ushered into a half-darkened room, and as
soon as Madame M had said " We have not come
for a medical consultation," the physician went away,
leaving us alone with the man who was lying in a
trance.
The fact that it was a man that was lying there, and the
absence of anything that looked like imposture, made me
incredulous.
We have not come for a medical consultation," said
Madame M , putting my hand into Alexis*.
" Ah ! " said he, his eyes half closed and glazed like those
of a corpse, " But meanwhile, I may tell you your little friend
is veiy unwell"
" Oh," I cried out, frightened, and I was just going to tell
him not to say anything about that, for fear of what I might
hear, only before I could speak he had diagnosed my ailment,
which is laryngitis, something chronic. But my lungs are
very strong, and that has savea me.
" You had magnificent lungs," said Alexis sympathetically.
"Just now they are overworked. You must be careful."
I ought to have written it down ; I can't remember all
those details about the bronchi and the larynx. I will go
back and get them to-morrow.
"I have come to consult you, Monsieur, about this per-
son," said I, and handed him a sealed envelope containing the
Cardinal's photograph.
Before I write down here all the extraordinary things that
happened, let it be understood that there was nothing in my
appearance which could at all indicate that I was concerning
myself about a Cardinal. I hadn't breathed a word of it to
any one. Besides, what likelihood was there of a young
Russian lady of fashion going to consult a clairvoyant about
the Pope, the Cardinal, the Devil ?
Alexis concentrated his thoughts and bethought himself.
I grew impatient
" I can see him," he said at last.
" Where is he ? "
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PARIS, 1876. 143
" In a great citv, in Italy ; he is in a palace, surrounded
by many people ; he is a young man. . . . No ! It is his im-
pressive face that deceived me. He is grey-headed. ... He
is in uniform. ... He is a man over sixty."
I, who had been snatching the words from his mouth with
increasing eagerness, felt sudaenly chilled.
" What kmd of uniform ? " I asked.
" It is rather strange. ... he is not in the army."
" No, that is quite true."
" Very well, tnen what uniform is it ? "
" A strange one ; not of our country. ... it is. . ."
"It is . . . well?"
" It is an ecclesiastical vestment . . . wait a moment. . . .
He occupies an elevated place, he bears rule over others, he is
a bishop. ... No ! a cardinal."
I started up, and flung mv slippers to the other end of the
room. Madame de M shook with laughter at my excite-
ment.
" A cardinal ? " I repeated.
"Yes."
" What is he thinking about ? "
" Something very serious. He is much engrossed by
it."
Alexis* slowness, and his seeming difficulty in uttering the
words, made me nervous.
" Come," said I, " try and see who is with him ? What does
he say ? "
" He is with two young men ... in the army, two young
men whom he often sees, who belong to the palace."
I always used at the Saturday receptions to see two young
soldiers who were in the Pope's retinue.
" He is talking to them, ' continued Alexis, " he is talking
in a strange language. . . . Italian."
" Italian ? "
" Ah, he is very learned, he knows nearly all the languages
of Europe."
" Can you see him now ? "
" Yes, 1 can. Those people about him also belong to the
Church. There is one, very tall and spare, in spectacles, who
is going up to him and speaking in a low voice. He is very
short-sighted. He is obliged to go quite close to an object to
see it."
Oh, my word ! that is the man whose name I always for-
get. He is very well known at Rome. It was he who talked
about me at that dinner at the Villa Mattel
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144 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
" What is the Cardinal doing ? " I asked. " What was he
doing a little while ago ? Whom did he see last ?"
" Yesterday. . . yesterday there was a great gathering
at his house. . . Churchmen. . . all ! Yes, they dis-
cussed a serious, a very serious matter, on Monday, yes-
terday. He is very much worried, for the discussion was
about . . ."
"About what?"
" They have been discussing, working. . . . they
want. . . '
" They want what ? Look again ! "
" They want to make him. . . . Pope ! "
" Oh. . . . ! "
The tone in which he said it, the clairvoyant's astonish-
ment, the very words themselves, electrified me. The ground
went from under mv feet I took oft' my hat, tangling my
curls, taking out the pins and sending them spinning into
the middle of the room.
" Pope ! " cried I to myself
" Yes, Pope," repeated Alexis. " But there are great
difficulties in the way. . . He is not the man who has the best
chance."
"But will he be Pope?"
" I do not read the future."
" Oh, Monsieur, do try, you can . . . come ! "
" No, no, I do not see the future ! I cannot see into
it?"
" Who is the cardinal ? What is his name ? Can't you
make out from his surroundings, from what people say to
him?"
" A. . . wait a bit. Ah ! " said he, " the picture of him
that I see is destitute of vitality, and you are so restless that
you take all the strength out of me ; your nerves give electric
shocks to mine. Do be quieter ! "
" Very well," said I, " but you say things which make me
jump. Now then, what is the Cardinal's name ? "
He pressed his hand on his forehead, and began to sniff at
the envelope. It was grey and of extra thickness.
"A !"
I had nothing more to take off ; I fell backwards in a heap
into my arm-chair.
" Is he thinking about me ? "
" A little. . . . and not favourably. He is against you.
He is dissatisfied in some way. I do not quite see how. . . .
on some political grounds."
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PARIS, 1876. 145
" Political grounds ? "
" Just so."
" But will he be Pope ? "
" I don't know. The French party will fall to pieces. I
mean there is so small a chance of one of their nominees
being elected. Oh, hardly any at all. . . . and so his party
will be amalgamated with Antonelli's or the other Italian
one."
" Which of the two ? Which will be victorious ? •
" I can't say until they set about it, but there is much
opposition to A , the other will. . . ."
" Will they soon set it going ? "
" I can't telL The present rope is still there. They can't
kill him. The Pope must live. . . ."
" Will Antonelli live long ? "
Alexis shook his head.
"Is he ill?"
" Very much so."
" What is the matter with him ? "
"He has something the matter with his legs. He has
fout, and yesterday, no, it was the day before yesterday, he
ad a severe attack. He has decomposition 01 the blood —
but I cannot go into that with a lady. . . ."
" It's quite unnecessary."
"Don't be so restless," he said, "you tire me. Think
quietly, I cannot keep up with you. . . .
His hand trembled, and I shook all over. I let it go, and
became calm.
"Take this," I said, giving him Pietro's letter sealed up
in an envelope exactly like the other.
He took it, and as before pressed it to his heart and
forehead.
" Ah ! " said he, " this one is younger, very young. This
letter was written some time ago. It was written at Rome.
Since then the writer has changed his residence. In Italy,
still. . . . but it is not Rome. ... no, there is the sea. . . .
This man is in the country. . . . out in the open country,
Oh, he has left Rome since yesterday ; certainly not more
than twenty-four hours ago. TTiis man is in some way con-
nected with the Pope, I see him behind the Pope. . . . There
is a link between him and A , there is a tie of near
kindred between them."
" But what sort of man is he ? what's his disposition ? what
does he think about ? "
" His is a strange nature. . . . reserved. . . . 8ombre t
L 2
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146 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
ambitious. . . . His thoughts turn to you constantly. . . .
but he thinks most of gaining his ends. . . . He is
ambitious."
" Does he love me ? "
" Very much. Still it is a curious, an unhappy nature.
He is ambitious."
" Then he can't love me."
" Yes, he does ! but in him love and ambition go together.
He neefls you"
" Tell me more about his disposition."
" He is just the opposite of you," said Alexis, " although
just as nervous."
" Does he visit the Cardinal ? "
" No, they are not on good terms. The Cardinal has
been estranged from him for some time, for political
reasons."
I often remember what Pietro told me " my uncle
wouldn't mind the Caccia Club and the volunteers ; what are
they to him ? There are political reasons at the bottom of
his animosity."
" He is his near relative," went on Alexis. " The Cardinal
is dissatisfied with him."
" Haven't they seen each other lately ? "
" Wait a moment ! " You think of too many things at
once. These are difficult questions. I am mixing up this
note with that other one ! They have been in the same
envelope ! "
" It was true. They were in the same envelope yes-
terday."
" Bo try and see, Monsieur ! "
" I see now. They saw each other two days ago, but they
were not alone. . . . There is a lady with him."
" Is she young ? "
" No, an old lady. His mother."
" What did they talk about ? "
" Not very openlv about anything. They felt embarrassed.
They talked vaguely, and hardly said anything about that
marriage."
" What marriage ? "
" Between you and him."
" Who mentioned it ? "
" They did. Antonelli does not speak of it, but he lets
other people do so. . . He, himself, is against it, and has been
from the very first. Just now they regard the idea rather
more favourably."
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PARIS, 1876. 147
' But what are the young man's ideas ? "
" He knows what he wants. He would like to marry
you . . . but Antonelli will not let him. However, he is less
hostile to you within the last day or two."
Madame M— : — was dreadmlly in my way, but I went
on manfully, though my spirits had fallen to the very lowest
ebb.
"If that man is only thinking of his own ends, he
evidently can't care about me."
"Oh yes he does. I told you so. If you were once
united to him, you and his ambition would march in
step."
" Then he does love me ? "
" Very much."
" Since when ? "
" You are too restless, you tire me ; your questions are
too hard. . . I can't see it."
" Oh, do try, do ! "
" I can't. . . . Has he loved you long ? I can't see
that."
" What is the connection between him and A ? "
" He is a near relative. . . "
' Has A any intentions as regards the young
man ? "
" Oh yes. But there are political differences between
them. But things are going more smoothly now.
" You sav that A is against me ? "
" Strongly. He does not wish this marriage to take place,
for religious reasons. But he is beginning to soften. . . .
just a little. . . It all depends on political questions. . . I
told you that some time ago there was open hostility between
A and the young man. A was opposed to him at
all points."
Well, what do you think of that, you who call all such
things quackery ? If it is quackery, it certainly produces ex-
traordinary results. I have written it down exactly as it
occurred. I may have left out a little here and there, but I
have added notning at all. Well now, don't you think it
astonishing ? Don't you think it strange ?
Aunt pretended she didn't believe it, because she is so
angry with the Cardinal. She began a string of commonplaces
to Alexis without any object whatever, which irritated me
greatly, because I knew perfectly well she wasn't thinking of
what she was saying one bit.
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148 MARIE BASHKIRT8EFF.
I am as wretched to-day as I was happy yesterday.
Saturday, July 22nd. — Finding that I did not come
to Russia, I telegraphed to mamma. She wrote to me
to say that he and L are my best friends. It is quite
time. I don't think any more about Pietro. He isn't worth
it. Thank God I didn't love him !
Until the day before yesterday I used to pray every night
that God would keep him for me and make me victorious.
I don't say anything more about it in my prayers now.
Besides, God knows that I intend to have my revenge,
even though I don't pray for it. fVengeance is not a
Christian sentiment, but it is a noble one for all that.
It is all very well for plebeians to forgive injuries.
Besides, people only forget things when they can't help
themselvesj
Sunday, July 23rd. — Rome. . . . Paris. . . . The stage,
singing, painting !
No. Russia before everything else. That is the basis of
all. Heigh-ho ! Since I am setting up as a philosopher, let
me reason the matter out in a fit anct proper manner. No
imaginative will-o'-the-wisp shall delude me from the right
path.
Russia first ! I pray God to help me. I have written to
mamma. I am heart free, and up to my eyes in work. Oh,
if God will only help me, all will go well !
Virgin Mary, pray for me !
Thursday, July 27th. — We left Paris yesterday at seven
in the morning.
1 whiled away the time on the journey with giving a
history lesson to Chocolat. Thanks to me, the young beggar
has some idea of the ancient Greeks, Rome unaer the kings,
then Rome developing through the Republic into the Roman
empire like France. He also knows something of the history
of France from the king's accession up to the time that his
head was cut off.
I explained all about the different political parties as
they are now, and gave him all the facts. He even knows
what a deputy is. After I had told him all, I began asking
questions.
And when I had done, I asked him what party he belonged
to, and the rascal answered —
"lama Bonapartist ! "
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BERLIN, 1876. 149
This is how he sums up what I taught him : " The last king
was Louis XVI. He was very good, but the Republicans cut off
his head. The Republicans are the people wno only want to
get money and honours. They also oeheaded his wife, Marie
Antoinette, and made a Republic instead. Then France
was very wretched, and there was a man born in Corsica
who was Napoleon Bonaparte. He was so clever and brave
that they made him colonel and then general. Then he
conauered the whole world, and the Frencn liked him very
mucn. But when he went to Russia he forgot to take
the soldiers' great-coats, and they were very wretched be-
cause of the cold ; and the Russians burned Moscow. Then
Napoleon, who was already Emperor, went back to France ;
but because he was unlucky, the French didn't like
him any more, because they only like those who are lucky.
And all the other kings wanted to be revenged, so they
said he must abdicate. Then he went to the island of
Elba, then he came back to Paris for a hundred days ; after
that they chased him. Then he saw an English ship and
asked them to save him ; and they took him on board and
made him prisoner, and took him to St. Helena, where he
died."
There is a good deal of truth in what Chocolat says.
We reached Berlin this morning.
The town impressed me very favourably. The houses are
very fine.
I can't write anything to-day — it is too much
trouble.
*" Two feelings are common to lofty or affectionate natures.
One is extreme susceptibility to other people's opinions,
the other is extreme bitterness when those opinions are
unjustj
Friday, July 28th. — Berlin reminds me of Florence.
No, stay ! It reminds me of Florence because I am there
with my aunt, and because I am living the same sort of
life.
We went first of all to the museum. Whether it
was from ignorance or from prejudice I know not, but I
was <juite unprepared to find anything of the kind in
Prussia
As usual, the sculpture fascinated me most ; I seem to
have an extra sense, a special faculty for understanding
statues.
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150 MARIE BA8HKIRT8EFF.
In the large hall there is a statue which I thought at first
was an Atalanta, owing to a pair of sandals which I took
as a criterion. The inscription said it was a Psyche. It
is all the same, however, a remarkable piece of sculpture,
both for beauty and naturalness.
After looking at the Greek casts, we passed on. My eyes
and head were already tired, and I noticed nothing in
the Egyptian section but those hurried flying lines which
remind me of the ripples made in water wlien you throw
something in.
There is nothing more trying than to go about with a
person who is bored by what interests you. My aunt hurried
on, tired and grumbling. It is true we have been on foot for
two hours.
I was much interested in the historical museum of
miniatures and statues, as well as in the early engravings
and miniature portraits. I am passionately fond of those
sort of things; and in looking at such portraits my im-
agination goes wandering off ever so far, into all epochs ;
it invents characters, aaventures, dramas Enough,
however.
Then the pictures.
We have reached the time when painting has attained per-
fection — reached the ideal of art.
The old painters began by hard lines and colours that
were too violent and not well united ; they arrived at feeble-
ness, bordering on confusion. There never has been a faithful
copy of Nature, whatever they may say and write to the
contrary.
■Let us ignore all art -between the early masters and modern
art* and consider these two only.
Harshness, colours that dazzle you, rudely-drawn lines, are
the characteristics of the first
Softened tints, shades so harmonised as to lose much
of their relief, a want of lines, are characteristics of the
second.
What we now want is to take up, with the end of the
brush, so to speak, the too striking colours from the old pic-
tures of the early masters and mix them with the insipidities
of the moderns. Then you will have perfection.
There is also that latest style of painting which con-
sists of painting by patches. It is a grave mistake,
although oy means of it one may produce some striking
effects.
* By modern, I mean here Raphael, Titian, and the other great masters.
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BERLIN, 1876. 151
In the new style of pictures, tangible objects — furniture,
for instance, and houses or churches — are not clearly defined.
Precise delineation is held in contempt, and a kind of dis-
integration of line is the result. There is too much stumping
done, even without using a stump at all, the result being
that the figures do not stand out from the background, and
seem as lifeless as the surrounding objects, which latter,
lacking in precision of form, do not seem to be altogether
fixed and motionlessj
Very well, my dear, since you know all about perfection
.... Never mind, I am going to work hard, and, what
is more, I am going to succeea !
I came in extremely tired, after having bought thirty-two
English books, some of them translations rrom the best
German writers.
" A library already ! " cried my aunt in alarm.
fThe more I read, the more I want to read ; and the more
I learn, the more there is to learn. I don't make this remark
in imitation of some ancient sage or other. I really feel
what I say.j
I am aeep in Faust. I am sitting before an old-fashioned
German deslc, with books, manuscript-books, and rolls of
paper before me
Where is the devil ? Where is Marguerite ? Alas ! the
devil is always with me. My mad vanity is the devil O
fruitless ambition ! Useless aspiration towards an unknown
goaD
I have the most profound objection to the happy mean.
What I want is either a life in the very thick of the fight,
or absolute reposej
I don't quite see that it is relevant, but I certainly
don't love A Not only I do not love him, but 1
don't think of him any more. All that seems a mere
dream.
But Rome attracts me ; it is the only nlace where
I shall be able to study. Rome — its noise ana its silence,
its dissipation and its dreams, its light and shadow ....
stay a moment : light and shadow ; yes, that's right — where
there's light there's shadow, and vice versd Oh no ;
I am quibbling, that's certain. At any rate, all I want is
there ! I want to go to Rome — the only place on earth which
suits me — the only place I love for itself
The Berlin Museum is a very fine and valuable one ; but
is it due to Germany ? No ; to Greece, Egypt, Rome !
After contemplating all these antiquities, I got into the
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152 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
carriage deeply disgusted with our arts, our architecture, our
manners ana customs.
If people would take the trouble to analyse what they
feel when they leave places like the Berlin Museum, they
would find that they thought just as I do. But why wish to
identify oneself with other people ?
r While disliking the materialism and the cut-and-driedness
of the Germans, we must acknowledge their good qualities ;
they are very polite, very obliging.
What I especially like about them is their devotion to
their Prince and their national traditions ; they are untainted
by the virus of so-called Republicanism.
There is nothing to equal the ideal republic; but
republics are like ermine — the smallest stain is fatal
And where will you find a republic which knows not a
stain ?
No ; I really couldn't stand this life. It's a horrid country.
There are fine houses, handsome streets ; but nothing what-
ever for the soul or imagination to feed on. The smallest
^wn in Italy is worth all Berlin.
My aunt wants to know how many pages I have written.
She " should think I have written a hundred."
I don't wonder; for I seem to be writing "while I think
and muse, and read ; and then I write two words. Thus it
goes on all day.
It seems strange that, since I became a Bonapartist
I should understand the advantages of a republic so
welL
Yes ; truly a republic is the only happy form of govern-
ment But a republic is impossible m France. Besides, the
French Republic is founded in blood and mud. Come now,
why should I think about republics ? I have been thinking
of them for nearly a week. Well, then, has France been
worse off since becoming a republic ?
No, quite the contrary. What then ?
And how about the abuses? There are plenty every-
where.
What is really wanted is a good Liberal constitution, with
a man at the head to hold the reins loosely and be a sort of
imposing figure-head, which does not really increase the
value of the shop, but inspires confidence and is agreeable to
look at Very well, a president can't be that.
But enough for this evening. Some other time, when I
know more about it, I will write more too.
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RUSSIA, 1876. 153
1" Sunday, July 30th. — There is nothing more depressing
than Berlin. There is a stamp of simplicity about tne city,
but it is a hideous disgusting simplicity. All the monuments
which encumber the bridges, streets, and gardens look idiotic
and out of place. Berlin reminds me of a picture moved by
clock-work. At certain fixed moments the soldiers come
out of barracks, the ferrymen begin to row, and the ladies
in hood-bonnets pass by holding ugly children by the
Jhand.
On the eve of entering Russia and remaining there without
mamma or my aunt, my spirits are sinking, and I feel afraid.
I wish I didn't vex my aunt so much.
The lawsuit, and tne uncertainty of it all ... . And then,
and then — I don't know, but I am afraid I shan't effect any
change !
The thought of having to begin again my old life when I
go back, only then without hope of change, without the
prospect of " Russia," which used to console and strengthen
me. .... O God, have pity on me ; consider the state of my
soul, and be merciful !
We leave Berlin in two hours. To-morrow I shall be in
Russia. No, I am strong ; I won't give way Only, if I
should be going in vain ? That's the worst of it We ought
never to despair beforehand. Oh, if only some one could
know what I feel !
Monday, July Slst. — My aunt, I, Chocolat, and Amalia,
arrived at the station yesterday evening at ten o'clock I was
feeling pretty wretched, but cheered up at the sight of our com-
f>artment, as comfortable as a little room, especially as it was
ighted by gas, and we were sure of being alone. As there
were only tnree places, the servants sat side by side. Con-
sidering that we were on the point of separating, I should
have liked a talk with aunt, but I am never effusive when I
feel deeply, and she held her peace for fear of making me
cross or worrying me if she talked. So that I haa no
choice but to bury myself in Octave Feuillet's Mariage
dans le Monde. A wholesome work, upon my word, which
gave me the deepest horror of adultery and all its filthi-
ness.
Pondering these reflections, I went to sleep, and only woke
within three nours of the frontier, at Eydtkiinnen, which we
reached towards four o'clock.
The country is flat, the trees green and bushy. Although
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154 MABLE BASHKIRTSEFF.
the foliage is fresh and vigorous, it is yet* slightly depressing
after the luxuriance of the South.
We were shown to an inn called the H6tel de Russie, and
established ourselves in two little rooms with whitewashed
ceilings, unstained wooden floors, and simple wooden furniture
to match.
Thanks to my dressing-case, I was able at once to get a
bath and to dress properly ; and after having partaken of eggs
and milk served by a stout blooming German girl, I am
beginning to write.
There is a certain fascination in sitting in this bare little
room, in a white dressing-gown, with my lovely bare arms
and golden hair.
I nave just been looking out of window. The immensity
of the view tires one's eyes. The absence of hills and general
flatness give one the impression of being on the top of a
mountain, overlooking the whole world.
Chocolat is ridiculously vain.
" You're my courier," said I. " How many languages can
you speak ? "
The youngster said he could speak French, Italian,
Ni<;ois, and a little Russian; and that, if I would teach him,
he would be able to speak German too.
He came to me in tears, while Amalia roared with
laughter, to complain that the landlord had assigned him a
bed in a room already inhabited by a Jew. I looked very
serious, and pretended that I thought it auite in the ordinary
course of things that he should sleep witn a Jew. But poor
Chocolat howled so much that I began laughing, and consoled
him by making him read several pages of a universal history
that I had bought on purpose for nim.
I like this little black boy. He is a real live plaything.
I teach him, I train him for service, I encourage him in the
nonsense he talks. He is my pet dog and doll rolled
into one.
v Life at Eydtktihnen has its charms. I am devoting
myself to young Chocolate education. He is getting on
famously in morals and philosophy.
This evening I made him go through his Scripture
history. When he got to the place where Judas is on the
point of betraying Jesus, he told me in a pathetic way how
the said Judas sold the Lord for thirty pieces of silver, and
pointed Him out to the guards by a kiss.
" Look here, Chocolat," said I, " would you sell me to my
enemies for thirty francs ? "
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RUSSIA, 1876. 155
" No," said Chocolat, looking down.
" Would you for sixty ? "
" No, I wouldn't."
" For a hundred and twenty ? "
" No."
" Well, for a thousand francs ? " I went on.
" No, no," said Chocolat, fidgeting his monkey-like fingers
on the edge of the table, looking down and shuffling his feet.
" Well, but, Chocolat, suppose somebody offered you ten
thousand ? " I persisted, affectionately.
" No "
" Good boy 3 But if they offered you a hundred thousand
francs, would you then ? " I asked once more, to get my con-
science clear.
" No ; " said Chocolat, and his voice changed as he
whispered, " I should want more "
" WhatV I shouted.
" I should want more."
" Well then, my dear boy, you faithful young scape-
grace, how much ? Tell me. Come, two millions ? three ?
four?"
" Five or six."
" But, bless the boy," I cried, " isn't it just as bad to be a
traitor for six million francs as for thirty ? "
" Oh no," said he, " when you have got all that money.
. . . the others couldn't do one any harm."
So in utter disregard of all morality, I fell upon the sofa
shouting with laughter, and Chocolat, hfghly pleased with the
result, departed into the other room.
Guess who cooked my dinner ? Amalia. I should have
died of hunger if she had not roasted two chickens. As for
thirst — well, they brought us some perfectly undrinkable
Chateau Larose.
It is really funny here ! Eydtkuhnen ! We shall soon see
what Russia is like.
Tuesday, August 1st — I should like to write a novel on
Chivalry. The one I began is stowed away at the bottom of
xay white box.
My aunt and I are here in the blissful inn of Eydtkuhnen,
awaiting my most honoured uncle's arrival.
About half-past eight I got tired of being shut up in-
doors, and went to meet the train myself. As I was told
that I was in plenty of time, I took Amalia and went for a
walk first.
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156 MARIS BA3HKIRTSEFF.
Eydtkiihnen has a charming promenade, well paved and
shady, with pretty little well-kept nouses along the right hand
side. It even boasts two cafSs and a kind of restaurant
The engine whistle recalled me in the middle of my
walk, and forgetting my little feet and high heels, I set
off at a run across kitchen gardens, and neaps of stone
and railway lines, hoping to get there in time — and in
vain.
What is my noble uncle about ?
Wednesday, August 2nd. — As if I hadn't worries enough
already, I find that my hair is coming out To lose your hair
is a grief that no one can at all appreciate, unless they have
gone through it themselves.
Uncle fitienne sends a telegram from Konotop. He is
only starting to-day. So we are in for another twenty-four
hours of Eyatkuhnen ! There is nothing to see or hear but a
grey sky, a cold wind, some Jews in the street outside, and
now ana then the noise of a passing cart, and in fact noises of
every kind by the yard.
This evening aunt tried to make me talk about Rome. . . .
I haven't cried since I don't know when, but I cried this
evening, not from love, but at the recollection of our
humiliating life at Nice !
Tliursday, August 3rd, and Friday, August 4th (July
23rd Old Style.) — I went to meet the train at three
o'clock yesterday, and by good luck my uncle was there this
time.
But he could only stay a quarter of an hour, for he had
had the greatest difficulty to pass the Russian frontier at
Wirballen without a passport, and he had pledged his word
to an official at the Custom-house to come oack by the
next train.
Chocolat ran to fetch my aunt, for there were only a few
minutes to spare. When she came we had scarcely time to
exchange two words. As we went back to the inn, aunt,, in her
anxiety about me, imagined that she had observed a certain
kind of constraint in my uncle's manner, and threw out so
many obscure hints, that I got depressed and uneasy too. I
got into the carriage at last about midnight Aunt was
crying, but I held my head very high to prevent any tears
from falling. The guard gave the signal, and for the first
time in my life I was quite alone !
I began to cry out loud, but don't think that I did not
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RUSSIA, 1876. 157
turn ray tears to good account I studied from Nature how
we cry.
"Look here, my dear," I said to myself, getting up,
" enough of that." It was high time. I was in Russia. On
getting out of the carriage I fell into the arms of my uncle, of
two policemen, and two Custom-house officials. They treated
me uke a princess, and did not even examine my luggage.
The station is large ; the railway people are a fine set, and
uncommonly civil Everything was so nice that I thought I
was in Utopia. A common policeman here is better than an
officer in France.
I may as well remark here, that there is something to be
said on behalf of our poor Emperor— people say that there is
something aueer about his eyes Every one who wears a
helmet — ana there are not a few at Wirballen — has the same
sort of eyes. I don't know whether it is due to the weight
of the helmet over the eyes, or to imitation. It may be
imitation, because it is well known in France that all his
soldiers had a look of Napoleon.
They gave me a compartment to myself, and after I had
talked over business and other matters with my uncle,
I went to sleep, raging inwardly about my telegram to
A .
You can get a good lunch at the station refreshment-
rooms, so I got out pretty often.
I can't say that my fellow-countrymen roused any feeling
in particular in me — nothing of the rapture I feel when I
come affain to a country I have seen before. Still I felt very
sympathetic towards them, and I began to feel very happy.
And really you can't help being pleased; everything
goes so smoothly, the people are so polite, and there is
such a look of frankness, cordiality, and kind-heartedness in
eve™ Russian.
Uncle came and woke me up at ten o'clock this
morning.
The engine fires are fed with wood, and so we are spared
the horrible griminess of coal smoke. I woke up quite
fresh, and whiled away the day in chatting, sleeping,
and looking out of window at our beautiful country,
which is very flat, but recalls the Campagna about Rome.
At half-past nine it was still fight. We had passed
Gatchina, the former residence of Paul I, who was so
gersecuted in the life- time of that wonderful mother of his.
oon we reached Tzarskoe-Selo, and in twenty-live minutes
were in Petersburg.
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158 MARIE BA8RKIRT8EFF.
I went to the Demouth Hotel with an uncle, a lady's maid,
a negro boy, a quantity of luggage, and fifty roubles in my
pocket
I was having supper in my good-sized sitting-room —
it has no carpet and a plain ceiling — when my uncle
came in.
" Do you know who is here with me ? " he asked.
" No. Who ? "
" Guess, Princess."
" Oh, I can't/
" Paul Issayevitch. May he come in ?
" Yes, let him."
Issayevitch is here at Petersburg with the military
Governor of Wilna, M. Albedinsky, who married the Emperor's
old mistress.
He had received the telegram I sent him before leaving
Eydtkiihnen. As he could not get leave, he had told his
friend, Coimt Mouravieff, to come and meet me. But
the Count had all his trouble for nothing, for we passed
Wilna at three o'clock in the morning, and I was happily
asleep.
Who will deny that I am kind-hearted, when I have
said that I enjoyed myself this evening because I knew
. that Issayevitch was pleased to see me ? Or is it selfishness ?
I was glad to give another so much pleasure. At any rate,
I have a knight to escort me about Petersburg. I am at
Petersburg at last !
I haven't yet seen anything but dronlikis. The droshki
is a one-seated vehicle on eight springs (like Binder's
great carriages) drawn by one horse. I have caught a
glimpse of the Cathedral of Kasan, with .a colonnade in
the style of St. Peter's at Rome, and of numerous public-
houses.
T Everybody here is singing the praises of Princess Margaret
— "so unaffected, so kindly!" Oh yes, nobody appreciates
simplicity in an ordinary woman. You may be as unaffected
and kincQy and amiable as you please, but if you are not a
queen your inferiors will take liberties with you, and your
equals will put you down as a " nice little thing," and will
much prefer women who are neither the one nor the
other.
Oh, if I were a queen ! Wouldn't they adore me !
Wouldn't I be popular !
The Italian princess, with her husband and retinue, is still
in Russia. They are at Kieff just now.
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RUSSIA, 1876. 159
" The mother of all the Russian cities," as the great king
Saint Waldemar called it after he had become Christian, ana
had baptised half Russia in the Dnieper.
Kieff is the richest town in the world in churches,
convents, monks, and relics. The gems which these convents
possess are something fabulous; they have cellars full of
them, as in the Arabian Nights.
I saw Kieff eight years ago, and I can still remember the
subterranean passages, crammed with relics, which go right
round the town, ana under all the streets, and which serve as
means of commimication between the different convents.
Thus you get miles of passages ornamented on both sides by
tombs of saints. May I be pardoned for a bad thought ....
but I really don't believe there were as many saints as all
that!
Sunday, August 6th. — Instead of going to see churches
I slept late, and Nina came to fetch me to breakfast with
her. Her parrot chattered, the children cried, and I sang.
I almost imagined myself back at Nice. The three Graces
went through the pouring rain, in a two-seated carriage, to
see the Cathedral of Issakie, celebrated for its malachite
and lapis-lazuli colonnade. These columns are extremely
rich, but in bad taste, the green of the malachite and
the blue of the lapis-lazuli jar. The paintings and
mosaics are quite ideal, they are genuine figures of the
Virgin, the saints and angels. The whole church is built
of marble. The four fa9ades, with their granite columns,
are fine, but do not harmonise with the gilded Byzantine
dome. And, taken all together, the exterior gives you a
rather painfiil impression, for the dome is too overpowering
for the four small domes above the fa9ades, which would be
beautiful by themselves.
The profusion of gold and ornaments in the interior
produces the happiest result. What is motley is har-
monious and in the best taste, with the exception of
the two lapis-lazuli columns, which would be splendid else-
where.
There was a popular wedding going on. The bridal couple
were ugly, and we did not stop long to look at them. I do
like the Russian people — simple, good, faithful, and frank.
These men and women stop m front of every church and
chapel, before every niche where there is an image, and cross
themselves in the middle of the street, just as if they were at
home.
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160 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
After having seen the Cathedral of Issakie, we went on to
the Cathedral of Kasan. We saw another wedding, and the
bride looked charming. This Cathedral is built in the style
of St. Peter's at Rome, but the colonnade looks super-
fluous : it does not seem to belong to the rest of the
building, and it is too short, so that the semicircle is in-
complete ; all this gives an odd and unfinished look to the
whole.
Further on is the statue of Catherine the Great on the
Newsky.
In front of the Senate, near the Winter Palace, which, it
may be parenthetically remarked, is merely a great barrack,
stands the statue of Peter the Great, one hand pointing to the
Senate, the other to the Neva. The popular interpretation of
this attitude is rather curious. They say that the Tzar points
one hand to the Senate and the other to the river to indicate
that it is better to be drowned in the Neva than to argue in
the House.
The chief thing to notice about Nicholas's statue is that it
is not supported on the two hind legs and tail of the horse,
that is, on three supports, but only on the two legs ; this
singularity made me reflect in a melancholy way that, as
the tail support is wanting, the Nihilists won't have so much
to do.
I dined alone with the three Graces, fitienne and Paul
looking on. They tell me quite seriously that they are my
retinue, and they irritate me beyond endurance. I wish
only to be with Giro and Marie.
It rains, and I have caught cold. I wrote to mamma : —
" Petersburg is a muddy hole ! The paving is disgraceful,
considering it is the metropolis ; you get so mghtfullyjolted.
The Winter Palace is a barrack, and so is the Grand Tneatre.
The cathedrals are magnificent, but barbaric and difficult to
make out"
Add to all that the climate, and there you are !
I tried to get up some excitement as I looked at
Pietro A 's portrait ; but he does not seem handsome
enough to make me forget that he is a sorry devil, a despic-
able creature.
I am not angry with him any longer, for I despise him too
much, not for any personal insult, but for the way he lives, for
his weakness. Stay, let me define this feeling. The weakness
which stirs us to kindness and tenderness, which makes
us forgive injuries, may be called weakness. But the weak-
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RUSSIA, 1876. 161
ness which incites us to base and mean actions is rightly
cowardice.
I expected I should miss my own people more than
I do. i et I am not happy. This, however, is due rather
to the presence about me of disagreeable and common-
place people (my poor uncle, for instance, in spite of his
?[ood looks) than to the absence of those wnom I am
bnd of.
our
my
Monday, August 7th, 1876 (July 26th).— " All
originality is mediaeval," I wrote in the last book of
journal
Our? Whose? The Christians? Which is the truth?
has the world been really regenerated ? Or has it gone on
with the same morals tnat nave prevailed from the very
first, under different exteriors merely, though always tending
to amelioration ?
The life of nations resembles a stream flowing slowly,
sometimes over rocks, sometimes over sand, now between two
mountains, now underground, and now across a sea and
mingling with it, but emerging at the other end really the
same, though it may have changed its name and even its
course. But, whatever form ana direction it assumes, it is
always pursuing the same end, an end which is fixed and
unknown.
Fixed by whom ?
By God ? or by Nature ? If God is Nature, then we are
but fools, for Nature has nothing to do with men and human
interests.
Philosophical lectures demonstrate the existence of a
Supreme Being, by which they mean the mechanism of the
universe. But do they demonstrate the existence of a God
such as we picture to ourselves ?
Nature has to do with the motion of the stars ; to look
physically after our planet. But what about our mind and
soul ? We must admit a God other than a mere vague per-
sonification of a universal mechanism.
Why must we ?
At this point I was interrupted, and at present I have lost
the thread.
I have been to the post to get my photographs and a
telegram from my father. He telegraphed to Berlin that it
would be " a real pleasure " to him to see me.
Finding Giro m bed I stopped with her for some time. A
passing word set us off upon Rome. I told her all about my
M 2
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162 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFP.
doings in that city with much animation. I only stopped
talkmg to laugh, and Giro and Marie rolled over in their beds
with laughing.
An incomparable trio. I never laugh like that except with
my Graces.
Then by a sudden and perhaps natural reaction, I grew
melancholy on the waj home.
I came in at midnight with uncle and Nina.
Petersburg gains upon you at night. I know nothing finer
than the Neva, with its rows of lamps contrasting with the
moonlight and the deep blue, almost grey, sky. Tne defects
of houses, roads, and bridges are mellowed by the kindly
shadows of night. The great wharfs stand out in all their
majesty. The peak on the Admiralty seems to melt into the
sky, and through a blue haze edged with light loom the dome
and graceful outline of the cathedral of Issakie, looking itself
like a floating cloud from heaven.
I should like to be here in winter.
Wednesday, August 9th (July 28th), 1876. I am with-
out a sou. What a condition !
ICtienne is a most estimable man, but he always rubs
all my most delicate feelings the wrong way. I got very
angry this morning, but when we were at the Sapogenikoffs'
half an hour after, I was laughing as if nothing had hap-
pened.
Dr. Tchernicheff was there, and I should have liked to
ask him for a remedy for my hoarseness, only I hadn't any
money, and this gentleman does nothing gratis. This is
a most charming position to be in. But I won't cry out
beforehand ; it is bad enough when it comes, without crying
beforehand.
At four o'clock Nina and the three Graces departed in a
carriage for the Peterhoff' station, all the three dressed in
white under long dust-cloaks.
The train was just starting, and we got in, without tickets,
under the protection of four guardsmen, doubtless fascinated
by my white feather and my Graces' red heels. So there
we were, Giro and I, like chargers at the sound of the
military band, with our ears pricked up, our eyes bright, and
full of spirits. . . .
When I got home I found supper waiting, Uncle
Etienne, and the money which Uncle Alexander sent me.
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RUSSIA, 1876. 163
I ate the supper, got rid of my uncle, and concealed the
money.
Then, oddly enough, I felt depressed, conscious of a greafT
void. I looked at myself in the glass ; my eyes looked as they
did that last night at Rome. Heart and nead were filled with
the remembrance.
I shut my eyes, and that evening came back when he
begged me to stop only one day longer.
" Yes," I murmured, as if he haa been there, " I will stay
for my love, my lover, my well-beloved ! I love you, I wish
to love you. You do not deserve it, but what does it matter,
it pleases me to love you." . . ..
Then suddenly I took a few steps in my room, and began
to weep before the glass. A few tears make me look rather
beautiful, on the whole.
Having worked myself up by a whim, I calmed down
because I was tired, and began to write, laughing softly to
myself.
I often invent a hero, a romance, and a drama to myself
like that, and then I laugh and cry over my imaginary scene
as though it were real. — '
I am delighted with Petersburg, but one can't sleep here.
It is daybreak already ; the nights are so short
TJcursday, August 10th (July 29th), 1876.— To-night
is a memorable one. I here give up looking upon the Duke
of H as my cherished shadow. I have seen a portrait
of the Grand Duke Vladimir at Bergamasco's house. I
couldn't tear myself away from that portrait.
No more perfect and entrancing beauty could be imagined.
Giro and I raved about it together, and ended by kissing the
portrait on the lips. Have you noticed how much pleasure a
portrait's kiss gives ?
It is the fashion to adore the Emperor and the Grand
Dukes ; and we have done the same as all the other young
ladies of the Institute ; but then they are all so absolutely
handsome that there is nothing to wonder at in that.
I brought away with my kiss from the picture a curious
feeling of sadness, and something to dream about for a whole
hour. I had been adoring the Duke when I ought to have
been adoring a Russian Imperial Prince. It's silly, but one can't
help that kmd of thing ; and then I always have looked upon
H as my equal, as the man for me. 1 have forgotten him
now. Who is going to be my idol ? Nobody. I shall look
for fame, and simply a man.
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164 MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF.
My heart will overflow as it has done before, dropping its
fulness as may happen along the dust of the road-side, without
emptying this heart, so constantly replenished from generous
springs tnat will never dry up.
Where did you read that, young lady ? In my own mind,
you pitiful reaaers !
So I am free. I love nobody, but am looking for some
one to love. May it happen soon. Life without love is a
bottle without wine. But for all that, the wine should be
good.
The lamp of my imagination is lit ; but shall I be more
successful in my search than that dirty old madman called
Diogenes ?
Saturday, Auguxt 12th (July Slst). — Everything was
ready ; Issayevitch had bidden me good-bye ; the Sapogeni-
koffs had come with me to the station, when — oh, con-
found it ! — money ran short ; we had miscalculated the fare.
I was obliged to wait at Nina's house until seven o'clock in
the evening, so that uncle might get me some money in
town.
At seven I departed, more or less humiliated by the
accident ; but just as I was going off, I was very much pleased
to see a dozen officers of the guard, followed by six soldiers
in white uniforms, carrying flags. This brilliant escort had
just taken down two officers who were going to Servia on a
Government mission. Servia is perfectly draining Russia
of her men ; for as the Emj>eror will not declare war, all
Russia volunteers, and subscribes willingly, on behalf of the
Servians. Nobody talks of anything else, and every one is
loud in the praises of a Russian colonel and several officers
who died really heroic deaths. I can't help feeling touched
with pity for our countrymen thus coolly allowed to be
hacked and butchered by those Turkish savages — a race
without genius, without civilisation, without morals, and
without renown.
And to think that I cannot even subscribe !
About an hour before I reached my destination I threw
my book aside, so as to get a good view of Moscow, our real
capital, the city which is really and truly a Russian one.
Petersburg is a German copy ; still, as the Russians have
made the copy, it beats the Germans hollow. Here, however,
everything is Russian, the architecture, the vehicles, the
houses, the peasants by the road-side who watch the train
pass, the little wooden bridge thrown across a stream, the
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RUSSIA, 1876. 165
very mud in the road is all Russian ; everything is open-
hearted, simple, pious, and loyal.
The churches, with their cupolas shaped and coloured like
a green fig upside down, give one a favourable impression as
one reaches the city. The porter who came to take our
luggage took off his cap and greeted us like old friends, with
a broad but respectful smile.
The people here are equally free from French im-
pudence and the stupid and heavy gravity of the
Germans.
A carriage was called, and as we drove to the hotel I
looked out of the window the whole time.
The air is cool, but damp and unhealthy, as at Petersburg.
The city is very old ; and, judging by the extent of ground
covered, the largest in Europe. The streets are paved with
large irregular cobbles, and are themselves irregular, first up,
then down, and all the time in and out among low-storeyed
houses, often of one storey only, but airy and with large
windows. The luxury of having plenty of space is so common
that nobody takes any notice of it, and the heaping of
several storeys on the top of each other is a thing unheard of
here.
The " Bazar-Slave " is an hotel like the Grand Hotel at
Paris. You even find the great circular restaurant which you
see from the first floor as from the gallery of a playhouse.
But although it is perhaps not quite so luxurious as the
Grand Hotel, the Bazar-Slave is infinitely more comfortable
and infinitely cheaper — especially when you compare it with
the Demouth hotel.
The porters of the houses are clad in black jackets,
trousers tucked into high boots up to their knees, and an
astrakan cap.
The various national costumes are rather conspicuous
here. Everybody wears a characteristic dress. Those odious
German jackets are not to be seen, and German sign-
boards are still rarer, though I regret to say there are a
few.
When I chose my cab I was quite overcome — the cab-
drivers beg vou to get in with so much earnestness that you
are really afraid to choose one for fear of mortally offending the
others. At last we got into a sort of phaeton, exceedingly
narrow, and then started on a wild career. We flew along
like the wind right through the middle of carriages, foot-
passengers, over cobble paving and tramway lines, jolted at
every step and often nearly shot out of the carriage. Uncle
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166 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFR
groaned with anxiety, and I laughed at him, at myself, at the
frantic way we went along, at the wind which tossed my hair
and burned my cheeks — in fact, I laughed at everything.
And whenever we came to a church or chapel or niche for
images, I devoutly crossed myself like those good folk in the
street.
I was disagreeably surprised to see women going bare-
foot.
I went into the Solodornikoff passage to buy a white
frilling. I walked in with my head in the air, my hands
hanging down, and a smiling face, just as if I were at home. I
want to get on to-morrow, so I can't buy anything, because I
have only just enough cash to take me to Uncle l£tienne's
house.
Catherine II/s triumphal arch is painted red, with green
columns, and yellow ornamentation. Notwithstanding the
startling colours, you can't help liking it Besides, it har-
monises *well with the roofs of the houses and churches,
which are nearly all of sheet iron, painted green or dark red.
The ingenuousness of exterior decoration makes you feel the
kindly simplicity of the Russian people, and gives you a
feeling of great satisfaction. And the Nihilists are already
undermining it — Mephistopheles seducing Margaret The
propaganda does its deadly work, and when the day comes
that these simple people, deceived and roused, rise in revolu-
tion .... the result will be perfectly awful. For if the
Russians are as gentle and obedient as sheep in times of peace
and quietness, wnen they do rise they will be raving maniacs,
demons of cruelty.
At -present their love for the Emperor is still intense,
thank God ! and so is their respect for religion. There is
something touching in their devotion and loyalty.
Perfect flocks of greypigeons inhabit the scjuare in front
of the Grand Theatre. They are not a bit afraid of vehicles,
and the wheels pass within a few inches without the pigeon's
Euttingf itself out You know, the Russians don't eat these
irds, because the Holy Spirit descended in the form of a
dove.
I am not going to see any sights this time. When I come
back and have some money I shall go and see all the historic
curiosities — to see Moscow is a good week's work. I have
merely caught a glimpse of the Kremlin, for just as some one
was pointing it out my attention was absorbed by a cab
painted to look like malachite.
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RUSSIA, 1876. 167
Amongst the names posted up in the list at the hotel I
saw that of Princess Souwaroff. I immediately sent Chocolat
to ask whether she would receive me, but he came back to
say that the princess was out and would not be back till seven
o'clock.
Uncle fitienne is asleep, and I am writing in the dining-
room.
On the back of the breakfast menu was printed a desperate
appeal to the Russian people and clergy on behalf of the Slav
Committee of Moscow. A copy was given me this morning
when I arrived. I shall keep it.
This appeal has stirred a chord in me. Why don't they
go to the Tzar and ask him to declare war ? If the whole
nation were to rise and go and fall before the knees of
the Emperor and beseech him to go and help his bro-
thers given over to the rage of savages, who would dare to
refuse ?
But then there are the Nihilists, that's the worst of it. If
once the troops were out of the way, they would make a rising
with all kinds of convicts and blackguards, and would have a
little Commune all to themselves — just to make a beginning.
To think of being here, in the very heart of this lovely
and promising country, and to feel threatened with hor-
rors like that ! I would fain take it up in my arms and
carry it far off', like a child whose eyes we cover and
whose ears we stop, lest it should see and hear ribaldry and
vileness.
Oh, how could I kiss him on the face, I the first! O
foolish accursed creature ! Ah, I cry and shiver with rage !
Turpis, execrabilis !
He thought it came quite natural to me, that it wasn't
the first time, that it was a regular habit ! Vatican and
Kremlin ! I am suffocated with rage and shame !
A cup of broth, a hot calatch, and some fresh caviare, were
the first courses of an incomparable dinner. Calatch is a kind
of bread, but you have to go to Moscow to make its acquaint-
ance properly, and at Moscow calatch is almost as celeorated
as the Kremlin. As one helping of assitrine I received two
huge slices, which would be looked upon abroad as enough for
four helps. Of course I didn't eat it all Besides that I had
a veal cutlet fifty square centimetres in size, with green peas
and potatoes ; and a whole chicken. And a saucer of caviare
is considered " half a help."
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168 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
iStienne laughed, and told the servant that in Italy that
would be considered enough for four people. Without mov-
ing a muscle or altering a line of his face, the man, who
was tall and thin, like Gianetto Doria, and impassive as an
Englishman, replied that that accounted for the smallness and
spareness of the Italians. And the Russians are so strong, he
added, because they like to feed well. With that remark the
impassive brute condescended to smile, and went off with
about as much animation as a wooden dolL
HSut quantity is not the only merit of the food here, it is of
the finest quality too. When you have had a good meal your
spirits rise, and when you are in good spirits you look upon
happiness with more complacency, and misfortune in a philo-
sophical spirit, and you are benevolently disposed towards
your fellow-creatures. Gluttony is monstrous in a woman, but
a little epicureanism is as desirable as wit and good dressing ;
besides, a simple and delicate diet maintains health and con-
sequently youth, the clearness of the skin, and the round-
ness of contour. Take me, for instance. Marie Sapogenikoff
was quite right when she said that I ought to have had a
much prettier face to match a body like mine, and yet I am
by no means ugly. When I think of what I shall be when I
am twenty, I smack my lips. . . When I was thirteen I was
too fat, and I used to "be taken for sixteen. Now I am thin,
my figure is entirely formed, with ample curves — perhaps
too ample. I compare myself with all tne statues I see, but
none of them are so curved and broad across the hips as
I am. Is this a defect ? And my shoulders require just a
trifle more fulnes^
" Yes," I said, " I should like some tea," so they brought
me a samovar, with four-and-twenty lumps of sugar, and
enough cream for five cups of tea, both of the finest kind.
I am very fond of tea, even when it is poor in quality, and
I drank live cups — they were only little ones — with cream,
and three without, like a regular Russian.
Real Russians and their two capitals are entirely new
experiences to me.
Before I went abroad I knew nothing of Russia except the
Ukraine and the Crimea.
The few Russian peasants who used to come out into the
country as pedlars seemed almost foreigners to us, and we
used to laugn at their dress and their speech.
I may say what I like, but all the same my lips have been
soiled since that defiling kiss.
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RUSSIA, 1876. 169
You good people, cynical women, I pardon your con-
temptuous smile at my affectation of candour ! . . . "But really
am I degrading myself by admitting such a thing as incredu-
lity. . . Must I swear it ? . . . No, I think I do a great deal
in thus speaking my least thoughts, especially as no one
obliges me to do so. I don't make a merit of it, because my
journal is my life, and in the midst of all my enjoyments 1
think " What a lot I shall have to tell to-night ! " as if I were
under some compulsion.
Monday, August \Uh {August 2nd). — We left Moscow
yesterday at one o'clock. The city was in a great stir, and
lined with flags, because of the commg of the kings of Greece
and Denmark.
The whole journey Uncle iStienne nearly worried me to
death.
Imagine me deep in a study of Cleopatra and Mark
Antony, and continually interrupted by this sort of remark :
— " Would you like something to eat ? " — " Do you feel cold ? "
— " There is some roast fowl and cucumber here." — " Will you
have a pear ? "— " Shall I shut the window ? "— " What will
you have to eat when we get there ? " — " I have telegraphed
to them to have a bath ready for you, our queen! I sent
for a marble one for you ; and the whole house has been got
ready to receive your Majesty."
It is all very kind, of course ; but unspeakably tire-
some.
There are some gentlemen paying attentions to Amalia,
as if she were a lady. Chocolat is surprising me by
his emancipated ideas and his ungrateful, sly, and cat-like
nature. At Grousskoe station we were met by two carriages,
six peasant serving-men, and my good-for-nothing brother.
He is tall and broad, but beautiful as a Roman statue, with
comparatively small feet Then an hour and a half s drive
to Ghpatowka, during which I foresee a number of petty
rivalries and bones of contention between my father and
the Babanines. I held up my head, and kept my brother
in his right place, who is, for that matter, delighted to
see me.
I am not going to take sides with any one. I want my
father.
"Gritzko" — the Ukraine patois for Gregory — "waited
here a fortnight to see you," said Paul; "we thought you
were never coming."
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170 MAEIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
" Has he gone, then ? "
" No ; I left him at Poltava. He wanted to see you very
much. " You know," he said ; " I knew her when she was
that high ! "
" Then he thinks that he is grown up, and that I am a
little girl ? "
" Yes."
" Of course. What is he like ? "
"He always speaks French, and he {joes into society at
Petersburg. He has the reputation of being close-fisted, but
he is only careful and gentlemanly. He and I wished to
welcome you at Poltava with a band, but papa said that was
only suitable for queens."
I notice that my father is afraid of seeming a swagger-
ing braggart I will soon reassure him. I adore all the
nonsensical whims that he is so fond of.
Eighteen versts of ploughed fields, and then a village of
small and wretched cabms. As soon as the peasants saw the
carriage they bared their heads. These people, standing there
so patient and respectful, touched me, and I smiled at them.
They were astonished, and replied with smiles to my little
friendly overtures.
The house is one storey high, small, but with a large
garden growing wild. The peasant women are remarkably
well grown, and look smart and handsome in their dress,
which outlines their form and leaves the legs bare to the
knee.
Marie, my aunt, came to meet us on the steps. I had
a bath, and then we dined. Several skirmishes with Paul
He tried to get me into a pet, without meaning it per-
haps, but in obedience to an impulse set in motion by his
father. I sat upon him superbly, and saw him humiliated
as he had wished to see me. I can read him through and
through.
He has no belief in my success, and means to tease me as
regards our position in society. Everybody here calls me
" cpieen." If my father wants to dethrone me, I shall make
him give in. I Know him, for in many respects he and I are
birds of a feather.
Tuesday, August 15th (Aug- 3rd.) — The house is as
bright and gay as a lantern. The flowers surell sweet, the
parrot talks, the canaries sing, the servants rim about. At
about eleven o'clock a peal of bells announced a neighbour,
M. Hamaley. Most people would think him an English-
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RUSSIA, 1876. 171
man. Well, he is nothing of the kind, but belongs to an old
and noble family here. His wife is one of the Prodgers.
As my luggage had not yet arrived we got out of the train
a station sooner than we need have done — I appeared in a
white dressing-gown. What an immense difference between
me now and a year ago ! A year ago I hardly dared open
my mouth, " I didn't know what to say." Now, like Margaret,
I am grown-up.
This gentleman lunched with us ; what am I to say about
him and the other people I shall see here ? Excellent people
in their way, but smacking of provincialism.
Another visitor turned up towards dinner-time, which was
not long after luncheon — the brother of the aforesaid gentle-
man. He is a young man and has travelled much, but very
obliging all the same. The sudden arrival of my eight
trunks was followed by some music and two songs sung by
me. Then I busied myself with my embroidery, but listened
with all my ears to a conversation on French politics — a
matter supposed to imply a knowledge of things beyond
my sex.
The second bearded Hamaley stopped till ten o'clock.
Up till eleven o'clock I was straining my poor voice,
which has scarcely recovered from the raw climate of Peters-
burg.
In this blissful Chpatowka they do nothing but eat
Then they go out for Half an hour, and then they eat again,
and so on all day long.
I went for a walk with my arm just resting on Paul's
while my thoughts were wandering to the devil, and
just as we were passing under some trees whose branches
came very low down over our heads, forming a ceiling
of interlaced leaves, I imagined to myself what A
would be saying if he were walking along this avenue
with me on his arm. He would lean a little towards
me, he would say in that languishing and penetrating
tone which he never used to anybody but me, ... he
would say, " How happy one feels here, and how I love you ! "
Nothing can give any idea of the tenderness of his voice
when he was talking to me, when he was saying things that
were meant for me alone. His ways, as of a tiger-kitten,
his eyes burning you through and through, his witching
voice, muffled and yet so thrilling, murmuring words of love
in tones of complaint or entreaty. . . so humbly, so tenderly,
so passionately ! — He was never like that except to me, me
only.
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172 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
But it was an empty tenderness, a manner, nothing
more. If he seemed stirred to the depths, it was only
a habit of his, just as some people seem to be always in a
hurry, others astonished, others sorrowful, without being so
really.
Oh, how I should like to know the truth about it all !
I should like to go back to Rome married ; otherwise it would
be humiliating. But then I don't want to marry. I want
to remain free, and above all to study. I have found my
vocation.
And frankly, to marry simply in order to spite A
would be foolish.
No r it isn't that, but I want to live like everybody
else!
I am dissatisfied with myself to-night, and I have no
particular idea why.
Wednesday, August lbth {August Uh). — A crowd of
neighbours of both sexes, the cream of this noble neighbour-
hood. One lady who has been to Rome and possesses a
daughter who won't open her mouth. In a sudden and un-
expected way three angels dropped in unawares : the Juge
destruction, the notary, and the secretary.
My uncle, who has been Justice of the Peace for seven
years past, has generally some business on hand with these
functionaries.
In two years he will be a state councillor, and he is
burning to be decorated.
Iput on a blue silk dress and little fancy shoes.
These fine gentlemen have not worried me like the dusty
people at Nice, they have only made me laugh heartily.
They dare not make advances, but admire me at a respectful
distance.
Sunday, August 20th (August 8th.) — I started again
with my brother Paul. Paul does very well We had two
hours to wait at Kharkoff. My uncle Alexander was
there.
Notwithstanding my letters, he was almost dumbfounded
to see me. He told me how terribly anxious my father had
been, thinking that I was not coming at alL He did nothing
but ask for the letters I wrote to my uncle, so as to know
whether I was on the way.
In short, uncle Alexander was most graciously pleased
to see me — from proper pride, if not from love of me.
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RUSSIA, 1876. 173
Uncle Alexander tried to put a spoke in my wheel, but
my policy is to take neither side. He found me a seat by
introducing the colonel of the Menzenkanoff guards, who gave
up his.
I feel at home in my country ; everything knows me or
mine ; there is nothing uncertain in our position, and we walk
and breathe freely. But I shouldn't like to live here. Oh
no, certainly not !
We reached Poltava this morning at six o'clock. No one
to meet us.
When we reached the hotel, I wrote a note. Abruptness
often pays.
" I have arrived at Poltava, and not even found a
carriage.
" Come at once. I will wait for you till noon, Really,
this is hardly a proper welcome.
"Marie Bashkirtseff."
I had scarcely despatched this letter when my father
burst into the room. I threw myself into his arms with a
stately dignity. He was visibly satisfied with my appear-
ance, for his first care was to look me over with a kmd of
eagerness.
" How tall you are ! I hardly expected it. And pretty,
too. Yes, indeed, uncommonly so."
" And that is how you welcome me ; not even a carriage !
Did you get my letter ? "
" No ; but I have just got the telegram, and I ran here.
I hoped to have been in time for tne train — I am quite
covered with dust I got into little E 's troika to save
time."
" I have just written you such a letter ! "
" Anything like the last one ? "
" Pretty much."
" Ah, very good .... very good ! "
" Now you Know. I expect to be waited on."
" So do I. Now look here, I am devilishly freakish."
" So am I, only more so."
"You are accustomed to have everybody running after
you, like so many puppies."
" So they must, or they'll get nothing out of me."
" Well, you needn't expect this sort of thing from me."
" Well, you can take it or leave it."
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174 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
" But why treat me as the elderly father ? I ara a jolly
good fellow, a young man, there ! "
" All the better.
" I am not alone. Prince Michel E and your cousin
Paul Q are here too."
" Let them come in."
E is a regular little masher, screamingly funny, very
deferential, engulfed in a pair of trousers three sizes too big
for him, with a collar up to his ears.
The other is called Pacha* his family name is too
difficult to write. He is a sturdy vigorous lad, with light
brown hair, clean-shaved, has a Russian look, and is square,
frank, serious, and sympathetic ; but either taciturn or much
pre-occupied — which of the two I am not quite clear
about.
They had been expecting me with intense curiosity. My
father was delighted. My figure charms him. The con-
ceited man is proud of being able to show me off.
We were ready, but were obliged to wait for the ser-
vants and the baggage, so as to make the procession im-
Sosing ; a carriage and four, another open one, and a hooded
roshki, yoked to an idiotic troika belonging to the little
prince.
My pater looked at me with great satisfaction, but took
pains to look cool and even indifferent
Besides, it is his way to conceal his feelings.
When we were half way there, I mounted the droshki,
and went like the wind. We did ten versts in twenty-five
minutes. There were still two versts to Gavronzi, and I went
back to my father, that he might have the satisfaction of
making an imposing entry into the place
Princess l£ (Michel's mother-in-law and my father's
sister) met us on the steps.
" Look here ! " said my father ; " isn't she tall ? . . . . and
isn't she interesting ? Now isn't she ? Eh ? "
He certainly must have been pleased with me to be so
effusive before one of his sisters; but this one is a really
nice woman.
A steward and others came up to congratulate me on my
happy arrival.
The estate is picturesquely situated — hills, a river, trees,
one large house, and several small ones. All the buildings
and the garden are remarkably well kept Besides, the house
* Diminutive of Paul.
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RUSSIA, 1876. 175
has been thoroughly done up and re-furnished this winter.
The place is kept up in fine style, with an appearance of
simplicity and a look of "this sort of thing goes on every
day."
Of course we had champagne for luncheon — an affec-
tation of aristocratic ways and simplicity bordering on pom-
pousness.
Portraits of ancestors — tokens of a long line of descent
which are of course very acceptable.
Fine bronzes, Sevres and Saxon china, and art treasures.
All this quite surpasses my expectations here.
My father poses as an unhappy man — one who wished
for nothing better than to be a model of all the domestic
virtues, deserted by his wife.
There is a large portrait of mamma, painted during her
absence. Signs of regret are not wanting at the remembrance
of perished happiness, with outbursts of hatred against my
grandparents, wno caused the breach. He takes a tre-
mendous lot of trouble to make me feel that iuy arrival
will make no difference in the ways of the house.
There was a card-party, during which I did my canvas-
work, and threw in a remark from time to time, which was
eagerly listened to.
Papa quitted the table and sat down by me, leaving the
cards to racha. I talked as I embroidered, and he listened
very attentively.
Then he suggested a walk in the country. I walked at
first arm-in-arm with him, then with my brother and the
little prince. We went and saw my old nurse, who made a
pretence of wiping away a tear. She only nursed me for
three months ; my real nurse is at Tchernakowka.
They took me a good long way. " We must give you an
appetite," said my father.
I complained of being tired r and said I was afraid of
walking on the grass, for fear of serpents and other " ferocious
beasts/ The father was reticent ; so was the daughter. If
his sister the princess, Michel, and the other one had not
been there, it would have been much better.
He made me sit down beside him to see some sleight of
hand and gymnastic performances on the part of Michel.
He learned the "profession" in a circus, which he accom-
panied as far as the Caucasus on account of a little circus-
girL
As soon as I got home I recalled a remark made by
my father, whether accidental or on purpose. I dwelt on
N
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176 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
it till it assumed large proportions, and then sat down in a
corner and wept long, without moving and without blinking
once, but staring fixedly at a flower on the wall-paper —
plunged in misery, restless, and sometimes so despairing as
not to care.
This is what happened. They were talking about A ,
and asking me all sorts of questions about him. Contrary
to my usual custom, I replied with reserve, and did not
enlarge on the subject of my conquests, leaving them to
imagine or guess what they liked. And then my father
observed, with the utmost indifference —
" I heard that A was married three months ago."
Once in my room, I did not reason about it ; I simply
remembered the remark, and flung myself on the floor,
crushed and miserable.
I looked at his letter : — " I need the consolation of a word
from you." This upset me completely, and almost made me
condemn myself.
And then — oh, what horror in fancying you love and
yet in not being able to love ! For I really cannot love
a man like that — a feeble, dependent creature, who hardly
knows anything ! I can't love. I can only be bored.
The people nere have given me a green bed-room and a
blue sitting-room. Really, when I think of my peregrinations
this winter they are curious enough ! And, even since I have
been in Russia, how many times have I changed guides, habi-
tations, and surroundings !
I change my habitation, my relatives, and my ac-
quaintances, without the smallest surprise, or that strange
feeling which I felt before. All these people — my pro-
tectors or otherwise — all these means of luxury or useful-
ness get mixed up together, and leave me calm and
unmoved.
What can I do to get my father to Rome ?
Tuesday, August 22nd (10th). — There is a good deal of
difference between life here and the open-handed hospitality
of Uncle fitienne and Aunt Marie, who gave up their room
to me and waited on me like niggers.
Here it is very different There, I was at home in a
friendly country. Here, I came to beard long-established
relationships, trampling under my little feet hundreds of
quarrels and millions of squabbles.
My father is a hard man, who has been frozen and
flattened down from his very childhood by that terrible old
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RUSSIA, 1876. 177
general his father. Scarcely did he gain his freedom and
come into his property than he took his fling and half ruined
himself.
Puffed up as he is with self-love and puerile conceit,
he prefers to seem a monster rather than let nis real feelings
appear, especially when he is much moved, and in this he is
lie me.
But the merest blind man would see how pleased he
is to have me, and he does show it a little when we are
alone.
At two o'clock we started for Poltava.
This morning we have already had a skirmish on the
Babanine question, and in the carriage my father allowed
himself to insult them, especially grandmamma, in the name
of his lost happiness. The blooa rose to my face, and I told
him severely to leave the dead in their grave.
" Leave the dead ! " he exclaimed. " If I could only get
at the ashes of that woman and the . . . ."
" Silence, father ! You are insolent and ill-bred ! "
" Chocolat may be insolent ; I am not."
"Yes, my good father, you are, and so are all who are
lacking in refinement and education. I will not have people
talking like that. If I have enough delicacy to be reticent
on that point, it is absurd for others to complain. You
have nothing whatever to do with the Babanines; mind
the business of your own wife and children. As for them,
do not speak of them in any other way than as I speak
of your relations to you. Appreciate my tact, ana do
likewise."
All the time I was saying this I felt extremely proud of
myself.
" How dare you say such things tome?"
" I say it, and I repeat it. I am sorry I came
And I turned my back on him, for I was choked with
tears and with a frantic desire to cry.
Then my father began to laugn, in confused embarrass-
ment, and tried to kiss me and take me in his arms.
" Look here, Marie, let us be friends. We won't ever talk
of that I won't say anything more about it, I give you my
word."
I resumed my ordinary bearing, but without giving the
smallest sign of forgiveness and friendliness. The result of
which was that papa got more amiable still
My child, my angel — (I am talking to myself* — you are
N 2
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178 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
an angel — an absolute angel ! You always knew what to
do, but you couldn't always do it You are only just be-
ginning to put your theories into practice !
At Poltava my father is monarch; but what a fearful
kingdom !
My father is tremendously proud of his two bays.
When they were brought out in the municipal state
carriage, I condescended to remark that they were "very
pretty."
We drove through the streets, as silent as those of
Pompeii.
How on earth can these people live like that ? But then
I am not here to study the townspeople's habits, so let us
get on.
" Ah," said my father, " if you had come a little sooner,
there were plenty of people. We might have got up a ball,
or something ! Now, there isn't a dog left. The fair is
over."
We went into a shop to order a canvas for painting. This
shop is the meeting ground of all the swells of Poltava, but
to-day we found not a souL
This was also the case in the public gardens.
For some unknown reason my father won't introduce
anybody to me. Perhaps he is afraid of a too severe
criticism.
M turned up in the middle of dinner.
Six years ago, when we were at Odessa, mamma often
used to see Mme. M ; and her son Gritz came every day
to play with Paul and me. He used to pay court to me,
and bring me sweets, flowers, and fruit.
They used to laugh at us, and Gritz used to say that he
would never marry any woman but me. To which a certain
gentleman invariably remarked —
" Oh, what a boy ! He wants a rider for a wife ! "
When we left Kussia for Vienna, the M s came with
us as far as the steamer. I was a regular flirt in those days,
although I was so small I had forgotten to bring my comb,
and Gritz ^ave me his. Our parents let us kiss each other
when we said good-bye.
" O jours fortunes de notre enfance,
Ou nous elisions, maman, papa ;
Jours de bonheur et d'innocence,
Ah ! que vous etes loin deja."
"You know, my dear cousin, Gritz is rather deaf and
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RUSSIA, 1876. 179
rather stupid," said Michel E , while iM was going
up the restaurant gallery stairs.
" I know him well, my dear chap ; he is no more stupid
than you and I ; and he is a little deaf owing to some illness
he had, and chiefly because he puts cotton-wool in his ears so
as not to catch cold."
Several people had already come up and shaken hands
with my father, burning to be introduced to the daughter
from abroad ; but my father only looked contemptuous on my
behalf, and did nothing. I was getting afraid he would do
the same as regards Gritz.
" Marie, let me introduce to you Grigori Lvovitch M ,"
said he.
"We have known each other a long while," said I,
graciously putting out my hand to the friend of my child-
hood.
He wasn't a bit changed. The same brilliant complexion,
the same spiritless look, the same little mouth — rather
scornful it was — and a microscopic moustache; dressed to per-
fection, and very gentlemanly.
We looked at each other curiously. Michel looked sar-
castic. Papa blinked, as he always does.
I was not at all hungry. It was time to start, for the
theatre, which, like the restaurant, was in the gardens.
I suggested that we might walk about a little, and go
to the theatre afterwards. My model father inserted him-
self between Gritz and me, and when it was time to go
into the theatre he ran up and gave me his arm. Upon my
word, he is quite the pattern father that you get in story-
books.
A huge stage-box on the first tier, hung with red cloth,
just facing the Prefect.
A bouquet from the prince, who fills up the day with
paying me compliments, in return for whicn he gets such
remarks as " There, go now, my good fellow ! " or, perhaps,
" My cousin, you are really the flower of fashion ! "
Few people there, and a commonplace piece on the stage.
But our box had plenty of interest all to itself.
Pacha is a curious fellow. As frank and straightforward
as a child, he takes everything seriously, and tells me so
exactly what he thinks that I sometimes suspect that he must
be immensely sarcastic at bottom. He sometimes doesn't
speak for ten minutes ; and when any one says anything
to him, he starts, as if he had only just woke up. When
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180 MARIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
you try to be agreeable to him, and say with a smile, " How-
good you are ! ' he gets huffy, and retires into a corner,
growling " Not a bit of it ; and if I say so, it is because I
think it ! "
I showed myself in the front of the box to gratify my
father's vanity.
" There," he said, proudly, " see me playing the paternal
rdle. It is comic. But I am a young fellow still — I am."
" Ah, papa ! " said I, " that is your weak side. Very well.
You shall be my elder brother, and I shall call you Constan-
tino. Does that suit you ? "
"Perfectly."
M and I particularly wanted to have a talk to our-
selves ; but Paul E or papa always got in the way, as
if they did it on purpose. At last I ensconced myself in
a corner which was nke a little separate compartment,
looking on to the stage, and letting you see the actors'
E reparations. Michel, of course, followed me; but I sent
im to get me some water, and then Gritz sat down by
me.
" I have been impatiently looking forward to seeing you,"
he said, examining me curiously. " You are not a bit
changed."
"Oh, I don't like that," I said; "I was very plain when I
was ten."
" Oh, it isn't that ; but you are always the same."
"H'm!"
" Oh, I see what that glass of water meant ! " whined the
prince, handing me one. " Oh yes, I see ! "
" Pay attention to what you are carrying. You will upset
it on my dress if you bend so much."
"You are unkind; you are my cousin, and yet you
always talk to him."
" He was my friend when we were children ; you are — oh !
you are — a gay butterfly of a day."
We found we remembered the smallest incidents.
" We were both children ; but how well we remember our
childhood passed together, do we not ? "
"Yes."
M is quite an old man of the world in mind. It is
quite comical to hear this fresh rosy boy talking of serious
domestic useful matters. He inquired whether I had a good
lady's-maid. Then —
" Your having studied so much will be a good thing when
you come to have children, and ..."
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RUSSIA, 1876 181
" What an idea ! "
"Well, am I not right?"
" Oh yes, you are quite right."
" There is your uncle Alexander," said my father to me.
"Where?"
" Over there, opposite/
And there he was, with his wife.
Uncle Alexander came over to us, and at the next interval
my father sent me over to aunt Nadine. The dear little
woman was pleased, and so was I.
Between one of the acts I went out into the garden with
Paul My father ran after me and took my arm.
" So you see," said my father, " how civil I am to your
relatives. I am not so devoid of manners after all"
"Very well, papa Those who want to get on with me
ought to obey my wishes and serve me."
"Oh no."
" Oh yes. They can take it or leave it ; but now con-
fess that you are happy in having a daughter like me
-pretty, well-formed, graceful, clever, and well-read. Con-
t!"
f It is quite true ; I confess it."
one will
"Oh, although you are such a young fellow, and every
ill be surprisea to find your children so big ? "
" Oh yes, I am still quite a young man ....
" Papa, we are going to have supper in the garden."
" It isn't considered proper."
" Oh, come, papa ; not proper with one's own father, the
marichal de noblesse, whom all the curs know; the most
prominent man of the golden youth of Poltava ! "
" But the horses are waiting."
" That is just what I wanted to talk to you about. Send
them away, and we will go home in a cab."
" You in a cab ? You certainly shall not. And, besides,
supper isn't respectable."
"Papa, when I condescend to consider a thing respect-
able, it is quite absurd for any one to presume to tnink
differently."
" Well, well, then, we will have supper ; but solely to please
you. I am tired of these amusements.'
So we had supper in a private room, ordered by papa out
of deference to me. Bashkirtseff, father and son, uncle
Alexander and Nadine, Pacha, E , M , and I. M
busied himself chiefly in putting a cloak about my shoulders,
and declared I should, catch cold,
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182 MARIE BASHKIET8EFF.
We had some champagne. E asked for one bottle
alter another, so as to give me the last drop.
We had several toasts, and my boy-friend, taking his
glass, bowed towards me, and said, gently, "Your mother's
health." And as he looked frankly into my eves as an old
friend, I also replied in a whisper with a frank look of thanks
and a friendly smile.
A few minutes afterwards I said out loud, " To mamma's
health ! " and they drank it afresh. M watched my
smallest actions, and palpably was trying to conform to my
opinions, my tastes, and even my jokes. I amused myself by
cnanging them, so as to put him out He kept on listening,
and at last exclaimed —
" Oh, how charming she is ! " He was so open, natural,
and delighted at it, that I couldn't help being pleased
myself.
Nadine went home in the carriage with papa and me, and
I went to her house, and there we chatted as much as we
liked.
"My dear Moussia," said my uncle Alexander, "you
delighted me. I was very much pleased with your proper
way of treating your relations, and especially your lather,
I was getting anxious for you ; but if you go on as
you have begun, I can assure you that everything will go
well."
" Yes," said Paul ; " even if you only stop a month, you will
get the whip-hand of our fatner, which will be a very good
thing for everybody."
My father occupied the room next to mine, on the right,
and he made his servant sleep in my dressing-room.
" I hope she is well guarded," he said to my uncle.
" You know, I am a eay dog, and lead a life of pleasure ; but
from the moment that her mother entrusts ner to me, I
shall justify her confidence and fulfil my duty in the most
sacred way."
Yesterday I borrowed twenty-five roubles from my father
in order to have the pleasure of returning them to him
to-day.
We started in the same order as we did yesterday.
We were hardly in the fields before my father asked,
quite suddenly, " Well, are we going to fight again to-day ? "
" As much as ever you like.
He took me abruptly in his arms, wrapped me about m
his cloak, and laid my head against his shoulder.
I closed my eyes. That is my way of being tender.
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RUSSIA, 1876. 183
We remained like that for several minutes.
" And now," he said, " sit up again."
" A cloak, then, for I shall be cold."
He wrapped me in a cloak, and I began to speak of
the places abroad, of Rome and the pleasures of society,
taking care to make him understand how immensely we
enjoyed ourselves, speaking of Mgr. de Falloux, of Baron
Visconti, and the Pope. Then I enlarged upon the society
of Poltava.
"Passing one's life in losing at cards, degenerating in
the depths of provincialism, and drinking champagne in
wineshops. Getting rusty and stupid. Whatever else one
does, one ought always to oe in good company."
" Oh then, that is as good as saying that I am in bad
company ? " he said, laughing.
" I say so ! never. I am only speaking generally — of no-
body in particular."
I said so much that he asked me the cost of a fine suite
of rooms in which to give parties at Nice.
" You know," said he, " if I were to zo down there, and
stay for the winter, the position would be a very different
one ... "
" Whose position ? "
" Oh, that of the birds of the air," he said, laughing, with
some amount of pique.
" My position ? Yes, it is quite true. But after all
Nice is not a pleasant town. Why not come this winter to
Rome ? "
" I ? H'm ! . . . Yes ! . . . H'm ! . . . "
That's all right, the first word has been sown, and it has
fallen on good ground. What I fear are the adverse influ-
ences which may be brought to bear. I must accustom this
man to me, must make myself pleasant and necessary to him,
and in short manage to let aunt T find a barrier between
her brother and her malice.
He is pleased to find that I can talk on every subject. As
we went in to dinner I finished a discussion on chemistry with
one Kapitanenko, a retired officer of the guard, who had
got rusty exposed to the universal ridicule of this provincial
society. He is constantly at the house.
My father said as he got up —
" Y ou see, Pacha, how learned she is ! "
" You are laughing at me, papa ? "
" Not at all, not at all. All right, my dear. Yes, ah ! very
good ; h'm, very good."
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184 MABIE BA8HKTRT8EFF.
Wednesday, August 23rd {August \\th). — I have written
almost as much to mamma as in my Journal It will do her
more good than all the medicine in the world. I make
her think I am delighted, but I am not — as yet. I tell her
everything just as it happens, though I am not yet very sure
what will be the end of the story. However, we shall see.
God is very good.
Pacha is my first cousin, my father's sister's son. This
man puzzles me. We had a talk this morning ; we spoke of
my father, and I said that sons always criticised their fathers'
actions, and that as soon as they were in their places the sons
did exactly the same, to be criticised in turn by their own
children.
"Exactly," said he, "but my sons won't criticise me,
because I shall never marry."
A moment after, I went on — " No young people ever lived
who haven't said the same thing."
" Yes, but it isn't the same tning with me."
"Why not?"
" Because I am twenty-two, and have never been in love,
and no woman has attracted me."
" That's very natural. No one ought to be in love before
twenty-two."
" Why, some boys fall in love from the age of fourteen."
" All their loves have nothing to do with real love."
" Very likely ; but I am not everybody. I am hot-headed
and proud — I mean, of course, I am speaking of my self-
respect, and besides "
"But those are good qualities which you are speaking
"Good?"
"Certainly."
Then, & propos of I don't know what, he told me
that if his mother were to die he should go out of his
mind.
" Yes. for a year ; and then "
" Oh no ; I should go mad — I know it"
" For a year perhaps ; but new faces obliterate old
impressions."
" Then do you deny that virtue and lasting feelings
exist ? "
" Of course I do."
" It is very curious, Moussia," he said, " how quickly one
gets into familiar ways when there is no constraint, The day
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RUSSIA, 1876. 185
before yesterday I called you Maria Constantinovna ; yesterday,
Mile. Moussia ; and to-day "
" Moussia, simply ; and I told you to do so."
" It seems to me that we have always been together, your
manners are so simple and pleasing."
"Yes, doesn't it?"
I enjoyed talking to the peasants we met on the road and
in the Forest ; and Took you (" look you," a portier's phrase),
I can speak the dialect here very fairly.
The Vorsklo, the river which runs through my father's
village, is so shallow that it may be crossed on foot in the
summer, but in winter it is a torrent. I took it into my
head to make my horse paddle in the water, and, gathering
up my riding-habit, I rode nim right in. It was a very pleasant
sensation, and delicious to see. The water came up to the
horse's knees.
I was hot from the sun and my ride, and I was try-
ing my voice, which is gradually coming back I sang
the Laerymo8a out of the Funeral Mass, as I did at
Rome.
My father was waiting for us under the colonnade, and
lookea at us with satisfaction.
" Well, did I take you in ? Do I look badly in a riding-
habit ? Ask Pacha how I mount. Are you satisfied ? "
" Very true ; yes ; h'm ! . . . . Very good ; very good
indeed."
And he inspected me with a pleased air.
I am far from being sorry that I brought thirty dresses
for my father's weak side is vanity. Just at that moment
came M with a trunk and a servant. When he
had paid his respects to me, and I had made the usual
replies, I went to change my dress, saying, " I am coming
back."
I came back in a dress of Oriental gauze, with a train two
yards long ; a bodice of silk, open in front in the Louis XV.
style, and fastened by a great white bow ; the skirt was
naturally all in one, and the train cut square.
M talked to me about dress, admiring mine.
People call him stupid, and he can talk of everything —
music, art, science. It is quite true that it is I who do the
talking, and he only says, "You are perfectly right ; I quite
agree.
I said nothing about my studies, fearing to scare him.
But when we were at table, I was provoked into doing so. I
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186 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
quoted a Latin verse, and expatiated with the doctor on
classical literature and its modern imitations.
They exclaimed that I was astonishing, and that there
was nothing in the world that I couldn't talk about, no subject
of conversation in which I wasn't at home.
Papa made heroic attempts to hide his beaming pride.
Then a fowl stuffed with truffles started a discussion on
cooker} 7 , in which I showed an acquaintance with gastronomic
science which made M open his eyes and his mouth still
more. Passing to sophistry, 1 began to explain the utility of
good cookery, maintaining that good cookery makes men
virtuoua
I went to the first floor. The rooms are very large,
especially the ball-room. They have just placed the piano
there.
I played. Poor Kapitanenko made frantic efforts to keep
Paul from talking.
" Good heavens ! " cried the simple fellow, " when I hear
that, I forget that I have been fusty and rusty for six years
here in a province ! I am alive agam ! "
I am not playing well to-day. I flounder frequently.
However, there are some things that I don't jplay badly.
But all the same, I was quite aware that poor Kapitanenko
was sincere ; and I was pleased at the pleasure I gave
him.
Kapitanenko on my left, Eristoff and Paul behind, and
Gritz looking at me with a beaming countenance, I had no
eyes for the others.
When I had finished The Brook, they all kissed my
hand.
Papa blinked on his sofa. The princess went on working
without saying anything ; but she is a good-hearted woman
all the same.
I breathe freely ; I am in my father's house. He is one
of the chief government officials, and I fear neither want of
respect nor frivolity.
At ten o'clock papa gave the signal for retiring, and
handed over to Paul the young men who all live in the red
house with him.
And I said to my father, "That is what we shall do
when I go abroad again. You will come with me."
" Perhaps," he said. " Yes, I will think about it"
I was satisfied. A short silence intervened, and then we
talked about something else. When he went out, I went
in to the princess for a quarter of an hour.
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RUSSIA, 1876. 187
I told my father to invite uncle Alexander here, and he
wrote him a very amiable letter.
What do you think of me ?
I say that I am an angel, provided that God continues to
be well disposed.
Don't laugh at my devotion. There, you have only to begin,
to find everything ridiculous in my journaL If I were to
begin to criticise myself as an author, I might spend my
whole life at it.
Tliwrsday, 24>th Av^gust (12^ August). — At nine o'clock I
went to my father's room. I found him in his shirt-sleeves
trying to fasten his necktie. I did it for him while kissing
his forehead.
The gentlemen came to drink their tea, and Pacha too.
Yesterday evening he did not appear, and the servant came
to say that he had " gone to bed ill." The others laughed at
his bearish attentions to me ; and he is so sensitive about the
slightest thing that they couldn't get a word out of him this
morning.
To amuse me, E sent for a game of skittles, and of
croquet, and a microscope with a collection of fleas.
A scandal took place of a certain kind. You can judge
for yourself.
Paul took out of his album the photograph of an actress
whom my father is intimately acquainted with; and when
papa saw that, he took out his portrait too.
" What is that for ? " asked Paul in astonishment.
"Because I fear that you will also throw away my por-
traits."
I paid no attention to that, but to-day Paul drew me aside
and took me into a room, where he showed me his album,
empty but for the woman's photograph.
" 1 did that to please my father, but I was obliged to take
all the other portraits out too. There they are by them-
selves."
" Let me see them."
I took all the photographs of grandpapa, grandmamma,
mamma and myseli, and put them in my pocket.
" What are you doing ? " exclaimed Paul.
" I mean," said I, coolly, " that I am taking back our por-
traits. They are in such bad company here."
My brother was ready to cry ; but he tore the album
across, and went out. I did all this in the drawing-room,
and I was seen, so my father will hear of it.
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188 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
We had a long walk in the garden, and went to see the
chapel and vault containing the tombs of my grandparents
Basnkirtseff. M was my escort, and helpea me up and
down.
Michel followed us like a dog who tries to come over you
with submissive beseeching eyes, and looked despairingly at
Gritz the whole time.
Pacha walked in front; and when he looked at me, he
did so with such malignant eyes that I turned my head
away.
If mamma knew that at the supper at Poltava I had the
last drop of a bottle of champagne oy chance, and that when
they drank my health the arms of Nadine, Alexander, Gritz,
and my own crossed as for a wedding ! Poor mother,
how happy she would be !
Certainly Gritz is getting very soft ; but I pray from
the bottom of my soul that he won't ask me to marry
him — narrow, vain as he is, and with a devil of a
mother !
We talked over our childhood and the public gardens at
Odessa.
" I paid court to you then," he said.
I replied by my best smiles, while the young man made
beseeching grimaces, and begged me to let him carry my
train. He aid it yesterday, and got nicknamed the train-
bearer.
We made up a set for croquet.
When I was pleasantly warm, I went back to the Chinese
drawing-room (called by this name from its vases and dolls),
and, sitting down on the floor, began arranging my paint-
brushes and colours. My father is incredulous about my
talents. I made Michel sit in one arm-chair and Gritz in
another, and sitting on the floor I caricatured Michel in
fifteen minutes on a drawing-board which Gritz held, turning
himself into my easeL And while I dabbed away right ana
left, I felt their eyes devouring me.
My father was satisfied, and Michel kissed my hand.
I went up-stairs and sat down at the piano. Pacha list-
ened from a distance. Soon the others came in, and arranged
themselves as they did yesterday. But, passing from music
into talk, Gritz and Michel spoke of wintering at Peters-
burg.
" Yes, and I can imagine to myself what you'll do there,"
said I. "Shall I tell you how you will live now, and you
tell me afterwards if I am wrong ? "
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RUSSIA, 1876. 189
"Yes, yes."
" In the first place, you'll furnish your rooms with the
most rubbishing things sold you by sham antiquarians, and
with the most commonplace daubs sold you for ' Originals ; '
for it's necessary to be passionately fond of art and antiquities.
Next, you will keep horses, and a coachman who will be
familiar. You will consult him, and he'll even meddle in
your love-affairs. You'll go out on the Newsky with one
eye-glass, you'll meet a group of friends, you'll get down to
ask the news, you'll laugh till you cry over one ot those iokes
of your friends whose business it is to be witty. You'll ask
when Judic's benefit comes off, and whether they've been
yet to see Madame Damte. You'll laugh at Princess Lisa,
and rave about the young Countess Sophie. You'll go to
Borreel's, where doubtless there is a Francjois, a Baptiste, or
a D6sir6, who knows you, and who will come bowing and
scraping to tell you of the suppers that have or have not
taken place, the last scandal about Prince Pierre, and the
adventures of Constance. You will swallow a glass of some-
thing strong with a frightful grimace, and youll ask if what
they gave the prince was better cooked than what you got at
your supper. And Francis or D£sir6 will answer, ' Monsieur
le Prince, can you gentlemen imagine it ? ' And he will tell
you he had for you a Japanese turkey and truffles from
China. You will fling him two roubles and look about you,
and then you will get back into your carriage to follow
the women, leaning foppishly first to one side, and then
to the other, exchanging observations with your coachman,
who is as fat as an elephant, and who is known among
all your friends for being able to drink three samovars
a day.
" You will go to the theatre, and tread on the heels of
those who have got there before you, shaking hands with —
or, rather, extending your finger-tips to — friends who will
tell you of the success of the new actress, whilst you,
opera-glass in hand, will stare at the women with your
most impertinent look, and think you are making an
impression.
" And how you do take yourselves in ! And how perfectly
the women see through you !
"And you prostrate yourselves to ruination before the
Parisian ' stars ' who come to shine before you after they have
gone out in Paris.
" Then you sup, and you go to sleep on the carpet ; but
the restaurant waiters won't leave you in peace ; they
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190 MARIE BA8HKIRT8EFF.
thrust pillows under your heads, and put quilts over you,
your wine-stained dress-coats, and your crumpled snirt-
collars.
"You go home next morning to go to bed — or, rather,
some one takes you. And how pale and ugly and wrinkled
you look ! And now intensely you pity yourselves !
"And then, when you are tnirty-five or forty, you
definitely become enamoured of a ballet-girl and marry
her. And she beats you, and you sit behind the scenes
the most miserable being alive, while she dances on the
stage . . . ."
Here I was interrupted, for both Gritz and Michel
fell on their knees and asked for my hand to kiss, ex-
claiming that it was miraculous, and that I talked like a
book.
" Only," said Gritz at last . . . . " it's all true, all except
the ballet-girl. I shall never marry anybody but a woman of
the world. I am a man of rank. I shall adore having my
house, my wife, and great squalling babies ; I shall be dis-
tractedly fond of them."
We had a game of croquet while papa looked on. He
observed how attentive Gritz was. How should it be other-
wise ? I am the only woman here.
He ought to have gone at four o'clock, but at five he
asked me if he might stay to dinner, and after dinner declared
he would much rather not go by night.
I talked about furniture, carriages, liveries, and house-
keeping, and I was amused to see how my father swallowed
my words, and, forgetting his pride and reserve, asked various
questions.
Gritz talked much, not cleverly, but like a man of the
world who knew everything.
I had all my photographs in my hand, and he begged me
so hard to give him one that I couldn't refuse, and, as he was
an old friend, I gave him one.
But I did refuse him the little locket miniature, for
which he was ready to give "two years of his life." Ah!
Dio mio !
Friday, August 25th {August \3th). — M and Michel
departed after breakfast.
My father proposed that we should walk to Pavlovsk, his
other property.
It suits me very well ; but I am nervous to-day, and talked
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RUSSIA, 1876. 191
little, for the least exertion in speaking made me melt into
tears.
Thinking, however, of the effect it would have on mamma
to hear of the entire absence of festivities of any kind, I told
my father that I wanted society and gaieties, that I found my
position strange and even absurd.
"Very well," he said, "if you want it, it shall be done.
Would you like me to take you to the Prefect's ? "
" I should like it"
" Very well ; it shall be done, then."
Reassured on this point, I could go with an easv mind to
see the farm- works, and even to enter into details which didn't
amuse me at all, but which may come in useful some day
when I want to act the connoisseur on household arrange-
ments ; perhaps I shall be able to astonish some one by talk-
ing about the sowing of barley, and the qualities of wheat,
and a verse of Shakespeare, or a discourse on Platonic philo-
sophy, all in one breath.
It may be seen that I turn everything to account.
Pacha got me an easel, and about dinner-time I received
two large canvases, sent me from Poltava by M
" How do you like M ? " asked papa.
I told him how I liked him.
" Well," said Pacha, " J didn't like him the first day. After
that I got fond of him."
" Did you like me at first sight ? " I inquired.
"You? Why?"
" Never mind ; say."
" Well, yes ; you pleased me. I did not expect to find you
that kind of girl. I thought you would not know how to
talk Russian, that you were affected .... and . . . and then
I found you .... what you are."
" Very good."
I remarked what a depressing effect the country and the
fields, already bare, had on me.
" Yes," said Pacha, " everything is yellow. How the time
flies ! It seems only yesterday that it was spring."
" People always say that. Ah ! we were nappy in the
South ; we did not have these marked changes."
"But then you haven't got the spring to enjoy," said
Pacha, enthusiastically.
"All the happier for us. Sudden changes spoil the
equableness of our tempers, and life is happiest undis-
turbed."
"What? '
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192 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
" I aver that spring in Russia is a season adapted to
treachery and baseness."
" How so ? "
" In winter, when everything about us is cold, dark, and
dumb, we are gloomy and cold and suspicious. When the
warm weather comes we sim ourselves ; and, behold ! we are
transfigured — for the state of the weather has an immense
influence on the character, the disposition, and even the
convictions of mankind. In spring we feel happier, and
consequently better ; we are disinclined to believe m the evil
and baseness of people. ' When everything is so lovely,
and I am so happy, so full of enthusiasm, and almost
intoxicated with well-being, how can there be any room
for evil thoughts in other people's hearts ? ' That is the
general sentiment. Well, in the South we don't get intoxicated
— or, at any rate, only very slightly. Whence I infer that
we are in a normal condition, which maintains an even
leveL"
Pacha worked himself up to the pitch of asking me for
my portrait to wear in a locket his whole life long.
" Because I respect and love you like nobody else."
The princess opened her eyes, and I laughed as I begged
my cousin to kiss my hand.
He was obstinate, then reddened, and ended by obeying.
He is a curious barbarian. This afternoon I was talking of
my contempt for the human race.
" Ah ! you are right," he cried. " And therefore I am a poor
wretch ! " And red and trembling he took to his heels and
fled the drawing-room.
Saturday, August 26th (August 14th). — Oh, how intolerable
the country is !
With astonishing rapidity I sketched two likenesses of my
father and PauL It took me thirty-five minutes.
Combien de femmes en ce raonde
Ne ponrraient pas en dire antant.
My father, who had looked upon my talent as something
of a vain boast, now recognised it, ana was pleased. I was
enchanted, for to be able to paint is one of my aima Every
hour passed without painting or without flirtation (for flirta-
tion leads to love, and love possibly to marriage) falls on
my head like a weight. Read ? No ! Act ? Yes !
This morning my father came into my room, and after a
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RUSSIA, 1876. 193
few ordinary remarks, when Paul had left the room, there fell
a silence, during which I was aware that my father had some-
thing to say ; and as I wished to talk of the same thing, I pur-
posely hela my tongue, as much because I did not want to
begin, as for tne pleasure of seeing somebody else's hesitation
and embarrassment.
" H'm ! . . ." then " what do you say ? " he asked at last.
" I, papa ? Nothing."
" H'm ! . . . you said . . . H'm ! . . . about my coming
to Rome with you . . . H'm ! ... in what way ? "
" Why, in the ordinary way, of course."
" But . . . ."
He hesitated, and fidgeted with my brushes and combs.
" If I come with you . . . H'm ! . . . Mamma, you know
. . . she won't come ? Then . . . you see, if she won't come
. . . H'm ! . . . what shall we do ? "
Ah ! ah I excellent father ! There we are ! You are the
one to hesitate . . . splendid ! That's capital.
" Mamma ? Mamma will come."
"Ah!"
"Mamma will do anything I like. She only lives for
me."
Visibly relieved, he asked a number of questions as
to how mamma passed the time, and a heap of things
besides.
How was it that mamma warned me against papa's
evil disposition, and his habit of confounding people and
humiliating them ?
Because it is the truth.
But then why am I neither confounded nor humiliated,
while mamma always was ?
Because my father is cleverer than mamma, but not as
clever as I am.
Besides, he has an immense respect for me, for he always
gets the worst of it in a discussion with me ; and then my
conversation is full of interest for a man buried in Russia,
but still with sufficient intelligence to appreciate intelligence
in another.
I reminded him of my wish to see the society of Poltava,
and I can see quite well by his replies that he doesn't
want to show me m the society of whicn he is the ornament.
It was only when I said that I particularly wanted it, that,
he said my wishes should be granted, and set to work with
the princess to make out a list of ladies whom we should
have to call upon,
o 2
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194 MABIE BA8HKIKTSEFF
" Madame M too," I said, " do you know her ? Yes
but I don't visit her. She lives very quietly."
" But I must go with you to see her. She knew me
when I was little, and she is a friend of mamma's. And,
besides, when she knew me I was an unformed little girl, and
not externally taking, and I want to obliterate that unfavour-
able impression."
" Very well, then, we will go ... . only I wouldn't go
if I were you."
"Why not?"
" Because . . . h'm ! . . . she might think . . . ."
" Think what ? "
" Oh ! all sorts of things . . . ."
" No, tell me : I like people to be explicit ; hints try my
patience."
" She might think that you had designs . . . she will
think that you would like her son for a suitor."
" Gritz M ? Oh no, papa. She won't think so.
And, besides, of course M is a very nice young man,
the friend of my childhood, whom I am very fond of; but
to marry him ! No, papa ; he isn't the sort of husband I
want. Don't worry yourself"
The Cardinal is dying.
Wretched man ! . . . (I am speaking of his nephew.)
We talked about courage at dinner, and I made an
uncommonly true remark. I said that the man who is
afraid and yet faces the danger is more courageous than the
man who is not afraid ; the greater the fear, the greater the
merit
Sunday, August 27th (August 15tlt). — I have punished
some one to day for the first time in my life — I mean
Chocolat
He wrote to his mother, and asked her permission to
stop in Russia for much higher wages than what he gets
from me. This ingratitude pained me on his account ; and
so I summoned him, unmasked his baseness before every-
body, and ordered him down on his knees. The youngster
began to howl, and did not obey. So I was obliged to take
him by the shoulders and knees ; and then, less from force
than from shame, he went down on his knees, shaking a
whatnot covered with Sfevres china as he did so. Then I
stood up in the middle of the drawing-room and hurled
the thunderbolts of my eloquence at him, and finished by
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RUSSIA, 1876. 195
spying that I should send him back to France through the
agency of the negroes' consul, in the fourth class, with the
sheep and oxen.
"For shame, for shamo, Chocolat! You will come to a
bad end ! Get up, fie, and be off ! "
I had workea myself into genuine anger, and so when
five minutes afterwards the monkey came to beg my pardon,
I said that if he only repented under M. Paul s coaching, I
would have none of his repentance.
" No, I repent of my own accord."
" You are sorry then, yourself ? " He rammed his fists into
his eyes.
"Tell me, Chocolat I shall not be angry."
" Y . . es ! "
" Very well, then, you may go. I forgive you. But don't
you see that all this is for your good ? "
Ah ! Chocolat will either be a great man or a great
scoundrel.
Monday, AuguM 28th (Atujitst 16th). — My father has gone
to Poltava ; he was on duty. I tried to talk philosophy with
the princess, but it degenerated into a talk aoout love, men*
and kings.
Michel brought over uncle Alexander, and Gritz came in
later.
There are some days when one feels ill at ease; this is
one of them.
' M brought a bouquet for the princess, and a moment
afterwards, at dinner, he got into a discussion with Alexander
about the breeding of sheep.
" Gritz," said my father, " I much prefer you to talk of
bouquets than of sheep."
" Ah ! papa," said I, " you see it is the sheep that give us
the bouquets."
I meant nothing but the literal words; but every one
looked up, and I blushed up to my ears.
Then in the evening 1 very much wanted Alexander to
see that Gritz was paying me attention, and I did not succeed.
The fool would not leave Michel.
Really he is stupid, and everybody here says so. I
wished to defend him ; but this evening, whether from bad
temper or from conviction, I am very much of everybody's
opinion.
When they had gone to the red house, I sat down at
the piano, and poured out all my boredom and irritation
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196 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
upon the keys. And now I am going to lied to dream
of the Grand Duke Nicholas, which will perhaps amuse
me.
The moon here is insipid. I looked at it while they were
firing off' the cannon. My father has gone to Kharkoff for
two days. The cannons are one of his hobbies. He has nine
of them, and they were being fired oft' this evening while I
was looking at the moon.
Tuesday, August 29th (Aiujmt VJth). — Yesterday I
heard Paul say to uncle Alexander, as he winked at
me —
"If you only knew, uiy dear uncle! She has turned
all Gavronzi upside down ! She has re-fashioned papa to her
liking ! Everything yields before her ! "
Have I really done all that ? All the better.
I have been sleepy and bored since this morning. I do
not yet allow I am bored, because I lack amusement or
diversion. When I am bored I look for a cause, feeling sure
that this more or less pronounced discomfort comes from
something, and is not, on the other hand, simply the result of
solitude or lack of amusement
But here at Gavronzi I am in want of nothing, I have no
regrets, everything turns out exactly as I want, and yet I am
bored. Am I then to suppose simply that I am bored by the
country ? Nescio. Oh, devil take it !
When they sat down to cards, I stopped in my studio
with Michel and Gritz. Gritz is certainly different since
yesterday. There is a certain constraint in his manner which
I cannot make out
The party to-morrow is postponed till Thursday, and he
wants to go away on a long tour.
I was preoccupied, and they told me so. For some time I
have been hovering between two worlds. I don't hear when
they speak to me.
The gentlemen went to bathe in the river. The river at
the bathmg-place is beautiful, deep, and shaded with trees. I
stopped with the princess in the great balcony which makes
a covered carriage entry.
Amongst other things, the princess told me an odd story
Yesterday Michel carue to her and said —
" Mamma, let me get married."
"To whom ?"
" To Moussia."
" Silly boy, you are onlv eighteen."
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RUSSIA, 1876 197
He insisted so seriously that she had to tell him to go to
the devil.
" Only, my dear Moussia," she added, " pray don't tell him,
he would eat me up."
The gentlemen found us still on the balcony, which
attracted the heat fearfully. As for air, there isn't any to
speak of, and not the slightest breath of wind in the evening.
But the view is delightful Opposite are the red house, and
summer-houses scattered about; the mountain to the right
with the church halfway up quite hidden in the trees, and
the family vault a little further on ; to the left the river, the
fields, the trees, the horizon. And to think that all this
belongs to us, that we are the sovereign lords of all this ; that
all the houses, the church, the court which is like a little
town — everything, everything belongs to us ; and the servants,
nearly sixty in number ; and all ... .
I waited impatiently for the end of dinner, because I
wanted to get at Paul, and ask him for the meaning of
certain words he had let fall at croquet which worried me
disagreeably.
" Didn't you notice," said Paul, " that Gritz has changed
since yesterday ? "
" 1 ? No, I didn't notice anything."
" Well, I did, and Michel is at the bottom of it."
"How?"
" Michel is a good fellow, but has never met any women
except at fast suppers, and doesn't know how to behave a bit ;
besides, he has an evil tongue. Further, his tongue is too
long — witness his story of the other day. He said ne wanted
... In short, he is madly in love with you, and capable of any
villainy. I spoke to uncle Alexander about it, and he said I
ought to have pulled his ears for him. Aunt Nadine thinks
so too. . . . Wait a bit! I tell you that Gritz has been
persuaded by his mother or his friends that every one is
trying to hook him for his great wealth. Well, up to yester-
day he was praising you up to the skies ; and yesterday — of
course I know that you don't want him, that you don't care
a button (pardon the expression) about all that ; still, it is '
not nice. And it is always Michel that makes the tittle-
tattle."
" Yes, but what can one do ? "
"Oh, you must .... you have quite enough cleverness
for that, and more too ; you must say .... must make
him understand; he is an ass, but he will understand that.
In short, you must . . . When we are having dinner I
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198 MARIE BASTIKIBTSEFF.
will help you, and you will relate a story, or anything you
like."
That was iust mv idea.
" Very well, Paul, we shall see."
Alexander went to the theatre after us, and heard people
talking of the arrival of " Bashkirtseft's girl, who is a great
beauty."
In the lobby he was taken in tow by Gritz, who talked
enthusiastically about me.
I couldn't help making up a tableau on the great staircase.
I sat in the middle ; the gentlemen who came up with me
sat lower on the stairs ; the prince on his knees. Have you
seen the engraving of Goethe s Eleonore ? It was exactly like
that, even to my aress. Only I did not look at anybody ; I
looked at the lamps.
If Paul had not put one of them out, we should have
stayed for a long while like that.
Good-night. Oh, how bored I am !
Wednesday, August 30th (August 18th). — Whilst the
young men were running after the housekeeper with
the fireworks, which they threw at her legs, the prin-
cess, Alexander, and I were talking of Rome ana the Pope.
I pretended to be uneasy, saying that the Cardinal was
dead.
I dreamed that Pietro A was dead. I went up to his
bier, and put a topaz necklet with a golden cross round his
neck. I nad scarcely done so when I noticed that the dead
man was not Pietro.
Death in dreams means marriage, I believe. You may
imagine my annoyance, and with me annoyance shows itself
in passiveness and complete silence. But woe to those who
tease me, or even make me talk !
The conversation was on the morals of Poltava. Profli-
gacy is much practised. There is a story — taken quite as
matter of course — that Mme. M has been seen in the
street at night in a dressing-gown with M. J .
The young ladies behave with a lightness .... but when
they began to broach the chapter on kissing, I began pacing
the room.
A young man was in love with a girl who loved him.
After some time he married another, and when he was asked
why he had changed in this way, he replied —
" She has kissed me and she either has kissed or will kiss
other men."
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RUSSIA, 1876. 199
" Quite right," said uncle Alexander.
All men reason like that.
Such reasoning is in the last degree unjust. The result is
that I am in my own room, undressed, and maddened with
vexation.
It seemed to me that they were speaking at me. Then
this is the cause of it !
In Heaven's name, let me be able to forget ! Good God !
have I committed some crime, that Thou tormentest me
so?
Lord, Thou doest right My conscience, which leaves me
not a moment's peace, will heal me.
What neither education, nor books, nor advice, could have
taught, experience has taught ma
I thank God for it ; ana I advise girls to be a little more
canaille in their hearts, and to take care not to cherish any
sentiment whatever. For men compromise them first of all,
and then turn them into ridicule.
The finer a feeling is, the more easily is it turned to
ridicule ; the more sublime, the more ridiculous. And there
is nothing in the world more ridiculous and degrading than
ridiculed love.
I shall go to Rome with my father ; I shall go into society,
and then they shall see.
A delightful outing. The prince's troika, notwithstanding
uncle Alexander's weight, flew like lightning ; Michel drove.
I love going fast ; the three horses took the bit in their teeth,
and for several minutes I could not breathe for delight and
excitement
Then croquet kept us till dinner-time, about which time
M turned up. I was already on the look-out for a
"story," when the princess happened to mention the Miss
R s.
" They are very nice, but very unfortunate," said Gritz.
« Why ? "
" Because they do nothing but hunt for husbands with-
out finding them. For example, they wanted to catch
me."
Here everybody burst out laughing.
" Catch you ? " they asked. " Did you charm them so
much ? "
" Well, I think . . . however, they soon saw that I wouldn't
have them."
" Really," said I, " what a very unfortunate position to be
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200 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
in! to say nothing of its being intolerable for the other
people ! "
Every one laughed, and exchanged looks that were any-
thing but flattering to M .
Ah ! you see, when a man is an ass, it is a great mis-
fortune.
I noticed the same constraint in his behaviour this even-
ing as there was yesterday. Perhaps he was thinking that
some one was wanting to " catch him."
And the cause of all this — MicheL
Gritz scarcely dared speak to me from the other side of
the drawing-room, and it was not till half-past nine that he
ventured to approach me. I smiled contemptuously.
Oh, what a fool he is to be such a fool! I was
stiff and severe, and gave the signal to break up the
evening.
I am quite sure that Michel is priming him with
all kinds of nonsense. The princess told, me, "You
have no idea what Michel is capable of. He is sly and
base."
Oh, what a misfortune it is to be a fool !
Thursday, August 31st {August 19th). — Paul came to me
quite upset to say that papa had refused to allow the picnic
in the forest
I slipped on a dressing-gown, and went to papa to say
that we should go.
In about three minutes I had talked him over.
After no end of comical misunderstandings we started for
the forest, I being in an excellent frame of mind, contrary
to all expectation. Gritz was as natural as on the tirst
day, and our strained and unpleasant relations no longer
exist
We fared as comfortably in the forest as if we had been at
home. Everybody was hungry, and had a capital appetite,
making merry at Michel's expense all the time. For he
ought to have been the man to make all the arrangements for
the picnic, only he shamefully backed out of it this morning,
and the provisions came from Gavronzi.
Several squibs were let off, and then a Jew was got to tell
a lot of nonsense. In Russia the Jew is a being midway
between a dog and an ape. The Jews can do everything, and
are made use of for everything. We borrow their money,
beat them, intoxicate them, entrust business to them, and
make fun of them.
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RUSSIA, 1876. 201
When I got back to my room I was so depressed that I
should have spent the night in crying from sympathy had
not Amalia begun gossiping, and directed my thoughts into
another channel
Always cut short your temper ; it avoids scenes, tears, and
grovelling.
And I hate making scenes of that kind.
Poor Gritz ! just now I pity him ; he departed rather
unwell.
Saturday, September 2nd (Augunt 21^)- — I fainted with
the heat, and when two " crocodiles " from Poltava arrived
about dinner-time, I got myself up very gorgeously, although
my spirits were very low. There was a display of fireworks,
wnich we saw from the gallery, hung all round with Venetian
lanterns ; so was the court, and the red house.
My father then suggested a stroll, as the night was a very
fine one. I changed my dress, and we went into the village.
We sat down outside tne inn, and woke up a tiddler and a
mad fellow to dance. But the fiddler was only accustomed to
play the second violin, and could not be got to understand
that the first violin wasn't there, and insisted on playing
second. At the end of half an hour a move was made to the
house with perfidious intent — especially my father, Paul, and
I, who climbed up to the top of the belfry by a wretched
ladder, and began to ring the fire-alarm ; I pulled with all
my might I had never been so near to the bells before.
W hen you try to speak while they are vibrating, you feel at
first a kind of terror, for the words seem to die away on your
lips as in a nightmare.
All this wasn't particularly interesting, and I was very
glad tQ get back to my room, where my father came in, and
we had a very long talk.
But I was depressed, and, instead of talking, I cried the
whole time. Amongst other things he spoke to me about
M , saying that mamma had undoubtedly chosen him for
me as an excellent match ; but that, for his part, he wouldn't
move a finger to bring it about, because M was nothing
but an animal with money. I hastened to reassure him ; and
then we talked of all sorts of things. My father rather tried
to be restive, but I didn't give m an inch, and we got on
admirably. Besides, for several days now there has con-
stantly been a refined delicacy in his bearing towards me ; and
in his harsh dry way he has said such tender things that I
have been touched by it.
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202 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
I had no scruples as regards my aunt T I told my
father plainly that she ruled him, and that therefore I could
not feel sure of him.
" Me ? " he cried. " Not at alL Besides, she is the one ot
all my sisters whom I like least Be easy; when she sees
ou here she will fawn upon you like a dog, and you will have
er at your feet"
E
Sunday, September 3rd (August 22nd). — It seems that I
am having a tine time. I have been carried in a carpet
like Cleopatra; I have tamed a horse like Alexander;
and I have painted like — some one who is not yet
Raphael.
We went net-fishing in a large party this morning.
Stretched on a rug (I must say this, because I don't want to
be suspected of rolling myself in the dust) on the river-bank
— the water is lovely and deep here — under the trees, eating
water-melons, which the " crocodiles " brought from Poltava,
we passed two hours, more or less pleasantly. As we came
home I acted Cleopatra, and was carried in my rug as far as
the railing, and there Michel and Kapitanento improvised
a litter by joining their hands ; after that Pacha carried me by
himself. Having thus exhausted all the methods of getting
along, I found myself at the foot of the great staircase, which
I walked up alone, Michel being invariably entangled in the
end of ray train.
I looked charming when I appeared at luncheon; I am
speaking of my dress — a Neapolitan chemise of sky-blue
China crape and old lace, a very long skirt of white silk,
with a great piece of striped Oriental stuff, white, blue, and
gold, draped m front and knotted behind. All the rest of
the stuff fell naturally, just as a sheet does if you put it on
like an apron. Nothing more pretty and fantastic can be
imagined.
While some of them squandered their breath in card-
playing, and others in abusing the heat, somebody or other
mentioned the greys, boasting of their youth, strength, and
vigour.
For several days there has been some talk of my riding
one of them, but everybody raised such a number of fears
that I let it pass. However, to-day, partly because I was
angry with my cowardice, and partly to give the " crocodiles "
something new to talk about, I ordered the animal to be
saddled.
Whilst I was playing, my father, who was lying on
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RUSSIA, 1876. 203
the grass, did nothing but look from me to the " crocodiles "
and blink He was satisfied with the impression I made.
My outlandish though charming costume was set oft*
still more by a white silk handkerchief which I put on
my head, low in front and fastened behind, with the ends
coming back to the front as the Egyptian women wear them,
quite covering the nape and the rest of the neck. The
horse was brought out, and a chorus of objections arose.
At last Kapitanenko, remembering his service in the mounted
regiment, got on, but from the first step he was so shaken
that the charitable lookers-on began to laugh as idiotically
as possible.
The horse reared, stopped still, ran away, and Kapita-
nenko declared in the midst of the general amusement that
I might mount the horse — in three months. I looked at the
quivering animal, in whose skin the veins stood out every
moment like ripples made in water by the wind, and I
said to myself, " Now, my dear, you are going to show off your
false bravery, like a real 'young lady/ The 'crocodiles'
won't have anything to relate of you. You are afraid ? All
the better. The only really brave people are those who
are afraid, and walk straight up to the thing they fear all
the same. Courage doesn t consist in doing a thing which
other people fear, but which doesn't frighten you. No, the
only true courage lies in compelling yourself to do something
you are afraid o£"
I ran up-stairs four steps at a time, put on my black
habit and a velvet cap, and came down to mount again on
horseback.
I rode at a walking pace round the grass, Kapitanenko
by my side on another horse. Finding the eyes of the
lookers-on levelled at me, I rode back to the house-steps
to reassure them. My father got up into a dog-cart with
one of the gentlemen, the others found seats in the prince's
troika, and, followed by these two vehicles. I rode into the
long avenue. I don't know how it happened, but quite
naturally I set off at a gallop, first gently ana then headlong ;
then falling into a trot, I rode back to the carriages to gather
up compliments.
I was enchanted, and my purple face seemed to emit
fire, as did my horse's nostrils. I was radiant. A horse that
had never been ridden !
In the evening there were fireworks, the houses were
illuminated and with my initials visible everywhere. There
was a village band, and peasants danced under the gallery.
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204 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
The table was laid on the other side of the house, and
we passed through a crowd of inquisitive eyes.
44 Why, it is a regular church procession," said a woman in
the crowd, " and there is our Lord's body."
As a matter of fact we were lignted by torches, and
Michel was carrying my train. You know that on Good
Friday a painted banner is carried about representing the
body of Jesus.
Michel performed some gymnastic feats, while the village
lads looked at him stupefied, as they hung on to ropes
and swings, looking, in the darkness, like so many hanged
people, such as you see on sinister and half-effaced en-
gravings.
I was surrounded by these rustics. I am wrong to call
them rustics, for they paid court to me — both men and
women — in a most courtly way, and showered compliments on
me after this pattern : —
" The horse this afternoon was very fine, but the rider far
surpassed it."
You know I love to mix in low life; I talked to them
about everything, and very nearly began to dance too. Ah !
but this peasant-dance of our people — they look so submissive
and simple, but they are as deep as Italians in reality — is a
regular Parisian cancan ; and a most seductive one, to say no
more of it. They don't, it is true, kick their legs up to their
nose — which is a hideously ugly performance — but the man
and woman twist about, approach and pursue each other,
accompanied by gestures, snrill cries, and sudden smiles,
which send a shiver down one's back
The girls dance little, and very simply.
They had something to drink, and after leaving these
amiable savages I intended to go to bed ; but on the staircase
I stopped as I did the other night, and Paid and the others
grouped themselves on the steps. Chocolat sang us a Nice
song, to my great satisfaction.
After the song came music.
I got the most incredible sounds out of the violin, and
these shrill, pathetic, discordant and intermingling tones made
me roar with laughter, and my laughter, with this savage ac-
companiment, made the others, even Chocolat, split their sides.
Thursday, September 7 th (diigtist 26th). — The every-day
dress of a girl in Little Russia consists of a stout linen shirt
with large puffed sleeves, embroidered in red and blue; a
piece of black cloth made by the peasants wrapped about
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RUSSIA, 1876. 205
them from the waist downwards. This wrap is shorter
than the shirt, and leaves the embroidery visible at the
lower edge. The piece of cloth is only fastened by a waist-
band of coloured wooL
They wear a number of necklaces, and a ribbon round
their head. The hair is plaited into a braid, from the end of
which hang one or several ribbons.
I sent to the peasants to buy a similar costume. Then I
dressed in it, and, accompanied by our young men, I went
into the village. The peasants did not recognise me, for I was
not dressed like a young lady ; but I looked very handsome
and well dressed as a peasant — a peasant girl, that is. The
married women are attired differently. As to my feet, they
were clad in black shoes with red heels.
I nodded to everybody, and when we reached the inn we
sat down near the door.
It was my father's turn to be surprised .... but he was
delighted.
" Everything becomes her ! " he exclaimed, and making us
all four get up into his vehicle he drove us about the streets.
I shouted witn laughter, to the great amazement of those good
people, who asked each other who the handsome peasant girl
was, driving about with " the old seigneur " and " the young
gentlemen.
Set yourselves at rest. Papa is by no means old.
A Chinese tam-tam, a violin, ana a musical-box, were our
evening's amusements.
Michel drummed on the tam-tam, I played the violin
(played ! good heavens !), and the box playea of its own accord.
Instead of going to bed early, as usual, the author of my
being stopped up with us till midnight. If I have made no
one else's conquest, I have made the conquest of my father.
When he talks he looks for my approval, he listens atten-
tively to what I say, he lets me say wnat I like about T ,
and decides in my favour.
The musical-box is his present to the princess ; we have
all given her something. It is her birthday. The servants
are aelighted to wait upon me, and to be rid of the " French
people." I even order the dinner! And to think that I
thought myself in a strange house, and was anxious about
the ways and hours !
They wait for me as if I were at Nice, and I fix the hours
myself
My father loves gaiety, and his own people have not given
him much of it.
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206 MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF.
Friday, September Sth (August 27th). — Miserable fear, I
will conquer you ! Did I not take it into my head yesterday
to be afraid of a gun ? It is true that Paul had loaded it,
and I didn't know how much powder he had put in ; and
then I was not acquainted with the weajxm. It might burst,
and it would be a stupid way of dying — or I might be
disfigured.
All the worse: it is only the first step that counts.
Yesterday I fired at fifty paces, and I have fired to-day
without any sort of fear. I think — Heaven forgive me ! —
that I hit the mark each time.
If I succeed with Paul's portrait, it will be a miracle, lor
he doesn't sit to me, and to-day I only worked for a quarter
of an hour by myself Not quite by myself, though, for
Michel was opposite me, and dares to have fallen m love
with me.
All this took us on to nine o'clock. I dawdled,
and dawdled, because I saw how impatient my father
was. I knew quite well that he was only waiting for us
to leave the drawing-room to fly into the forest — like a
wol£
I held my court on the stairs again. ... I like staircases,
because you mount them. . . . Pacha ought to leave to-
morrow, but I managed so well this evening that perhaps
he will stay, though it would be much better for him to go.
Loving me like a sister is dangerous for a clown, a dreamer,
and a melancholy youth of twenty-two. I couldn't get on
better with him and Michel, which makes him love me
much. But when I am with men who are fools I grow
stupid; I don't know how to make myself intelligible to
them, and I am afraid every moment lest they should
imagine I am in love with them — like poor Gritz, for instance.
He thinks that all the girls want to " catch him," and behind
the least smile he detects an ambush and conspiracy against
his celibacy. Do you even happen to know the etymology of
this word celibate?
C(jdeb8 in Latin means " forlorn." It also comes from the
Greek word koilos, meaning " hollow, empty ! "
Oh ! you celibates — hollow, empty, forlorn !
I had scarcely heard my father decamp than I burst in
on the princess, where I rolled about on her bed, combed
Pacha's hair, patted Michel on the head, and in short
talked so much nonsense that I am quite astounded to this
hour.
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RUSSIA, 1876. 207
God, don't let me get to hate Pacha, the good lad ! he
is so upright !
They have been reading Poushkine out loud, and have
talked about love.
Ah ! I should like to love, to know what it is like.
Or have I ever loved already ? In that case, love is
a great misery, which one only takes up to — fling
away.
" You will never love," said my father.
" If it were true," I replied, " I should thank Heaven for
it."
1 should like to, and yet I shouldn't. And yet in
my dreams nevertheless / do love. Yes, but an imaginary
hero.
As for A ? I love him? No ; do people love like
that ? No. Even if he were not the Cardinal's nephew, if he
were not surrounded by priests, monks, ruins . . . and the
Pope, I should not love him.
But there, what need is there to explain ? You know all
about it, better than I do ; you know quite well that the
operatic music and A in the barcaecia produced a
charming effect ; and you ought also to be aware of the power
of music. It was pastime, but not love.
When shall I love ? I am going to divert myself a while
longer in bestowing the superfluous affection of my heart on
all sides, in being enthusiastic, in crying — and all about
trifles.
Saturday, September 9th (Atigust 28th). — The days slip
away, and I am losing a precious portion of the best years of
my life.
Family gatherings, delightful diversions, a gaiety of which
I am the life and soul .... And then I let Michel and the
other man carry me in an arm-chair up and down the great
staircase, admiring my shoes in the looking-glass on the way
down, and every day the same.
Oh ! how wearisome it is ! Not a single intelligent re-
mark, not a word such as one would get from a cultured
man ! I am unfortunately a blue stocking, and I love to
hear talk about the classics and science. . . Where can I
get that here ? Cards and nothing else. I should shut
myself up to read ; only, considering that my object here
is to make myself liked, it would be rather an odd. way of
attaining it.
p
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208 MARIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
As soon as ever I settle down for the winter I shall begin
to study again as I used to.
In the evening we had a sauabble about servants with
Paul. My father encouraged tne valet I reprimanded
(that's the word) my father, and my father swallowed the
reprimand. There's vulgarity for you ! However my journal
is full of it I beg you to believe that I am not vulgar
because I am vulgar and don't know any better. I adopted
this hurried style to save time, and also because it is so
expressive.
There was displeasure in the air ; I was vexed,
and my voice had those tremulous tones which forecast a
storm.
Paul doesn't know how to behave himself, and I can see
that as regards him my mother had good cause to feel un-
happy.
Sunday, September 10th (August 29th). — My Royal High-
ness, my rather, brother, and two cousins, set oft' to-day for
Poltava.
I am perfectly satisfied with myself; everybody yields
to me, flatters me, and, best of all, loves me. My father,
who at first wanted to dethrone me, has now almost entirely
come to see why sovereign honours are rendered to me as
my due, and, with the exception of some slight puerile
harshness which is natural to him, he renders them him-
self
This man, usually so hard, so entirely a stranger to every
domestic feeling, gives vent to outbursts of paternal tender-
ness towards me which astonish everybody about him. Paul
has developed a twofold respect for me ; and as I am kind to
everybody, everybody likes me.
" You have changed so much since you came here," said
my father to-day.
" In what way ? "
" Well, h'm ! . . . I mean that if you will get rid ot
certain unimportant angularities (I have them myself in my
character), you will be all that can be desired — a perfect
treasure."
In other words. . . Well, only those who really know the
man can appreciate the significance of these words.
And this evening he took me in his aims and tenderly
kissed me (a most unheard-of thing, according to Paul), and
said —
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RUSSIA, 1876. 209
" See, Michel, all of you, what a dear daughter I have ! . .
Here is a girl worthy to be loved."
" Am I not, papa ? I am a treasure."
" Michel, I promise you shall marry my daughter. Look
forward to the honour. Perhaps she will be a princess of the
blood."
I am writing from Poltava. It has rained all day, and
when we had to climb that diabolical mountain, which is half-
way here, the horses almost refused to obey ; so my father
got on the box, and the coachman got down and ran by the
side in the mud, and whipped up the horses to a gallop to pre-
vent their having time to think about the difficulty. The
noise of the bells, the crack of the whip, the shouts of the
footman, the coachman, and papa, the mute astonishment of
Chocolat — it was an exciting scene ; it reminded me of a close
race drawing to an end. We reached town at eight o'clock,
and went straight to the prince's house. He had left at five
o'clock this morning so that his house might be ready.
It is a small house, very plain on the outside, but charming
inside. Nothing was vet finished ; the carpet was down ;
the lamps, the plate glass, the beds, the wine, bought and
arranged
In all Russian houses there is a hall beyond the ante-
room, and this hall is all white ; then a delightful drawing-
room, in dark red, and a bed-room for me, full of all needful
and pleasing details, delicate attentions at every turn. Just
imagine, on the dressing-table I found powder and rouge !
All this took up the time till seven o'clock. At seven
o'clock it turned out that there was nothing to eat ! And
when we came in, Michel pretended that he had not expected
us any longer, lied very awkwardly, and, owing to our pitiless
chaffing, remained ill at ease all through dinner, which was
brought in from the club at about ten o'clock. Gilded
champagne cups led me into temptation ; I took two, which
heightened my beauty and loosened my tongue in a curious
way, just enough to produce animation, tnough indeed I
had been animated all day.
My father's plan has fallen through ; the people he wanted
to introduce to me are out of town.
When we had got rid of Michel, we talked about the
idiotic conduct of Gntz.
" What an ass he is ! " I said to myself. " Just think of
it," I remarked to my father and brother. " Is it likely, with
my ambitions, after having read, studied, seen the world, I
should go and marry M ? "
p 2
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210 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
" H'm ! " said my father, " yes, of course he is a
fool."
And he looked at nie, not knowing whether he ought
to look contemptuous, or to say what I know he was
thinking —
" M would be a very good match — even for you."
And now let me go to bed, in the bed which the prince
made with his own hands.
" Le tea fatto il letto ! " cried Ainalia. " Un princvpe /
Dio ! lei e proprio wiia regina I "
At this moment I heard shrieks. ... It was Amalia
howling because Paul had opened the window which faces
the gallery, and looked at her oathing. What a boy ! Pacha
and the prince have been asleep a long time.
I have scarcely room for my MS. book — the table is so
laden with phials, flagons, powder-boxes, brushes, sachets, &c.
Intoxicated by my success as a daughter, I said to my-
self, "Those who don't love me are clowns, and those who
love me basely are scoundrels ! "
Tuesday, September 12th (Augiutt 31*0- — A c i ft y at
Poltava, wonderful to say. Not knowing what else to do,
my father took me on foot about the town, and we had the
luck to see Peter the Great's column in the middle of the
public garden.
At midnight yesterday we left Poltava, and to-day,
Tuesday, we are at Kharkoff. The journey was a pleasant
one. We took a railway carriage by storm.
I was waked near Kharkoff by a bouquet from Prince
MicheL
Kharkoff is a large town lighted by gas. The hotel we
are at is " The Grand," and justifies its nama The landlord
is Andrieux, and it provides eveiy comfort. It is here, too,
that the golden youth sup, lunch, dine, get drunk, and
fraternise, with the innkeeper, who notwithstanding does not
presume. I wonder at that. They have queer customs here.
I had my hair dressed by Louis, another of those French
torturers.
Then tea, and gingerbread ....
Yes, and I visiter! a menagerie, and the poor beasts shut
up in cages made me feel sad.
I saw my uncle Nicholas, the youngest of the family, who
pretends he is studying medicine. Poor uncle ! he used to
help me in old days to play with dolls, and I fought him and
pulled his ears.
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RUSSIA, 1876. 211
I kissed him, ready to cry. " Come in," I said, " no need
of ceremony. Papa aoesn't like you, but I do with all my
heart I am always the same, only a little bigger ; that's all.
Dear Nicholas, I can't ask you to lunch, because I am not
alone, and there are all sorts of strangers about, but be sure
and come back to-morrow."
I went into our private dining-room, quite upset
" You needn't worry about it," said my fatner. " If you
wished it, you could have asked him. Only I should have
found an ingenious excuse for taking myself off."
" Father, you are unkind to-day. It is no use saying any
more about it That will do ! "
My father's timidity gave way before my dry heat, and no
more was said.
Tlmrsduy, September \Wt (September 2nd). — Pacha's
departure was talked about, as he came and went changing
his guns, for he is a great hunter before the Lord, like
Nimrod. My father begged him to stay ; but when once his
headstrong nature has said no, he won't abate an inch for
anybody.
I have named him the Green Man, because his illusions
are so youthful I say quite frankly, because I am certain,
that the Green Man looks upon me as something unique.
I told him to stay.
" Don't ask me to stay, please," he said, " because I shan't
be able to obey you."
I begged in vain, and I should not have been sorry to
keep him, especially as I knew it was impossible.
At the station we found Lola, her mother, and uncle
Nicholas, who had come to see me off.
There was an enormous crowd, because fifty-seven volun-
teers were leaving for Servia. I walked about the station,
sometimes with Paul, sometimes with Lola, sometimes with
Michel, Pacha — and, in fact, everybody in turn.
" Well, really, Pacha is not agreeable," said Lola, on learn-
ing what the matter was.
Then, constraining myself not to laugh, I went up to the
Green Man and made him a little speech, looking very cold
and offended. As the tears were in his eyes, and I ielt in-
clined to laugh, I came away for fear of destroying the effect
by laughing right out
We could scarcely get about, and only reached our com-
partment with great difficulty.
I was diverted by this crowd after the country aud placed
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212 MARIE BASHKTBT8EFF.
lnyseli by the window. They pushed, and drove, and shouted,
and I was looking on, when I stopped short, for all at once
there arose the sound of a choir of boys' voices, more beauti-
ful and purer than any woman's, lliey were chanting an
anthem, and seemed like an angelic choir.
They were the Archbishop's choristers, praying for the
volunteers.
Every one uncovered his head, and the tuneful voices in so
divine a harmony took my breath away ; and when they had
finished, and I saw everybody clapping their hands and
waving their hats and handkerchiefs, with eyes full of en-
thusiasm and chests heaving with emotion, 1 could but do
likewise, and shout " Hurrah ! " like them, and laugh and cry.
The shouts lasted several minutes, and did not cease till
the choir struck up the Russian hymn, " Boje, zorut vh-ravi"
But prayers for the Emperor sounded flat after those for
the men who were going to face death in succouring their
brothers.
And the Emperor leaves the Turks alone. Good God !
The train started in the midst of frantic shouts. Then I
turned round, and saw Michel laughing, and heard my father
say, " Dourak ! " instead of " Hurrah ! "
" Papa, Michel, is it possible ? Why don't you cheer ?
Good heavens ! what are you made of ? "
" Aren't you going to say good-bye to me ? " said Pacha,
stiff and red.
The train was already moving.
" Good-bye, Pacha," I said, holding out my hand. He
seized it ana kissed it silently.
Michel is playing the iealous lover. I watch him when
he looks at me for a long while, and then flings his hat on the
ground and savagely takes himself off. I watch him and I
laugh.
So I am back again at this detestable Poltava. I know
Kharkoff much better, for I lived there a year before ffoing
to Vienna. I remember all the streets and all the shops.
This afternoon at the station I recognised a doctor wno
had attended grandmamma, and I went up and spoke
to him.
He was surprised to find me grown up, although uncle
Nicholas had already spoken of me in his hearing.
I want to go back to the South. " Know'st thou the land
where the orange is in bloom ? " — not Nice, but Italy.
Friday September 15th (Septeniber 3rd). — This morning
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RUSSIA, 1876. 213
Paul brought me little fitienne, uncle Alexander's son. I
did not recognise him at first. I paid no attention to what
amount of pleasure or the reverse the sight of a Babanine
ffave my father, but devoted myself to the pretty little
ad.
At last my father took me to see the Poltava nota-
bilities.
We went first to call on the Prefect's wife. She is a
woman of the world, very pleasant indeed, so is the Pre-
fect. He had a committee going on, but came in to the
drawing-room, and told my father that committees did not
count when there was such a charming young lady to
be seen.
The Prefect's wife came with us as far as the ante-room,
and then we resumed our search for desirable people.
We called on the Vice-Governor, on the principal of the
institute for young ladies of the nobility, on Mine. Volko-
vitsky (Kotchoubey's daughter) ; the latter is very lady-like.
Then I took a cab and went to See uncle Alexander, who is
at the hotel here with his wife and children.
Oh, how nice to be among one's own people again!
No fear of either criticism or scandal here. Perhaps my
father's family seems to me cold and unsympathetic by
contrast with ours, which is unusually intimate, united, and
affectionate.
Talking now of business matters, now of love, and now of
scandal, I spent two very happy hours, at the end of which
my father's messengers blegan to arrive. But as I told them I
was not yet inclined to go, he came himself; and then I teased
him for more than half an hour, dawdling, looking for pins,
my handkerchief, &c. &c.
However, we started at last, and when I thought he had
calmed down a little I said —
" We have been guilty of great discourtesy."
" What discourtesy ? "
" We have been to see everybody except Mme. M -, who
knows mamma, and who knew me as a child."
This remark led to a conversation, ending in a refusal
As the Prefect asked me how long I was goimj to
stay with my father, I said I hoped to take him oack
witn me.
" You heard what the Prefect said when you said you
wanted to take me back with you ? " inquired the illustrious
author of my being.
"What* was that? '
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214 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
" He said I should have to get a permit from the Minister
as a nucricltal de la nobU&ie"
" Very well, then, be quick and ask him for it so that
nothing may detain us here too long."
" Very well"
* Then you are coming with me ? "
" Yes."
" Speaking seriously ? "
It was past eight o'clock, and the darkness of the carriage
allowed me to say all I wanted without my wretched face
interfering.
Saturday, September 16th (September 4//t). — Notwithstand-
ing all, I remain pleased. The flattery of the Governor and
his wife has raised me in my father's estimation. Besides, he
is flattered by the effect I produce ; and I am not sorry my-
self when they say" You know, BashkirtsefTs daughter is a great
beauty." (Poor creatures ! can they never have seen anything !)
Sunday, September 17th. — Gavronzi. — While awaiting my
future celebrity I have been shooting, in masculine attire,
with a game-bag slung round my neck.
We — my father, Paul, the prince, and I — started about two
o'clock in a waggonette.
Now, I find it hard work to give a description because I
don't know the names of — of anything that belongs to sport —
the briars, the reeds, the grasses, the wood so thick that we
could scarcely get through it, the branches which belaboured
us on all sides, and a beautifully fresh air; no sun, and a
sprinkle of rain especially made to charm sportsmen — when
they are hot
We walked on and on and on.
I walked round a little lake with my gun loaded and
ready to fire, hoping every moment to see a duck rise. But
nothing did. I was alreaay asking myself whether I should
not fire oft* my gun at the lizards that were darting over my
feet, or at Michel, who was walking behind me, and whose
eyes, I could feel, were fixed upon my person in masculine
garb with the most guilty thoughts.
I found the happy mean — the happy mean that France
cannot find — I killed a raven which was perched on the top of
an oak without thinking of any such thing, especially as it
was devoting its attention to my father and Michel, who
were lying in the middle of the glade.
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RUSSIA, 1876. 215
I pulled the feathers out of his tail and made myself a
tuft
The others did not shoot once ; they did nothing but walk.
Paul killed a thrush, and that was the sum of our
shooting.
If a mother who thinks her child dead, and dead through
her fault, who is not certain it is dead, and dare not speak
of it for fear of finding her fears well founded — if she
suddenly tinds again her lamented child who has caused
her so much agony, so many doubts, and so much pain, that
mother ought to be happy. It seems to me that her feeling
must be very much the same as mine when I recover my
voice after each attack of hoarseness.
After laughing very heartily in the drawing-room, I
stopped for a moment, and all at once found I could &ing.
I owe this to Dr. Walitzky's remedy.
Tuesday, September 19th. — I am depressed with hearing
accusations agamst my relatives, which nurt me without my
being able to take umbrage. I could easily stop mv father's
mouth if it wasn't for this miserable cfread of losing my
end by doing so. ... He is kind to me — I am very
good to say so. How could he be otherwise towards a
daughter who is clever, well read, pleasant, gentle, and
gooa-tempered (for I am all that at present, and he has
said so himself), who asks him for nothing, who has come
to pay him a graceful visit, and who gratifies his vanity in
every way?
When I got back to my room, I wanted to fling myself on
the floor and cry. I restrained myself, however, and it passed
off. That is what I shall always da You must not allow
insignificant people the power of making you suffer. When I
suffer, I lose my self-respect. I hate to think that So-and-so
has had the power to hurt me.
Never mind. Notwithstanding everything, life is still the
best thing there is in the world.
Friday, September 22nd. — Certainly, I am having enough
of it ! The country enervates, stupefies me. I told my father
so ; and when I said that I should like to marry a king, he
began proving to me that it was impossible, and renewing his
attacks on my family. I did not agree with him. ^Grant-
ing even that you can say certain things to yourself, you
mustn't let other people say them.)
I told him that Madame T had invented all that. I
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216 MARIE BASHKntTSEFF.
don't spare her, this good aunt of mine, and I have taken the
right steps to undermine her influence.
Oh, Kome! the Pincio rising like an island above the
Campagna intersected with aqueducts, the Porto del Popolo,
the obelisk, the churches of Cardinal Gastolo (one on each
side of the entrance to the Corso), the Corso, the Palazzo della
Repubblica Veneziana ; then the sombre and narrow streets,
the palaces blackened by the passage of centuries, the ruins of
a little temple of Minerva, ana last, not least, the Coliseum ! I
seem to see it all. I shut my eyes and I cross the city, I
visit the ruins, I see ....
I am just the opposite of those who say that " Out of sight
is out of mind." Even when an object is barely out of my
sight, it acquires a two-fold value ; I see all its details, I
admire, I love it,
1 have travelled a good deal, and have seen many towns,
but only two have thoroughly roused my enthusiasm.
The first is Baden-Baden, where I passed two summers
when a child ; I still remember those lovely gardens.
The second is Rome. Rome gives one a very different
impression ; but, if possible, a stronger one.
Rome is like certain people whom you don't care for at
first, but for whom your liking gradually increases. That is
why affection of this kind is so solid, and grows very dear
without any loss of passion.
I love Rome ; Rome only.
And Saint Peter's ! — Saint Peter's when a ray of sunlight
Sierces through the roof and falls on the pavement, making
eep shadows and long streaks of light, as even as the archi-
tecture of its columns and its altars. A ray of sunlight
which, with the help of these shadows only, erects a temple
of light within this temple of marble !
1 close my eyes and am transported to Rome ....
and it is night, and to-morrow the " hippopotamuses " will
come from Poltava. I must be beautiful .... I will
be
The country has done me an immense deal of good ; my
complexion has never been so clear and fresh.
Kome ! . . . . and I am not going to Rome ? . . . . Why
not ? Because I do not wish to. And if you knew what this
resolve has cost me, you would be sorry for me. Come ....
I am weeping for it
Sunday, September 2Uh, 1876. — It is beginning to get
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cold, and it went considerably against the grain to have
myself called at seven o'clock. At eight I was still trying
to snatch a few last moments, and at nine I was in the
dining-room, my black velvet cap on my head, and my black
riding-habit tucked up to show my monogram embroidered
on the top of my boots.
All the sportsmen were there — Kamenski, a Porthos ;
Volkovitski, a fury from Iphigenia in Tauris ; Pavelka, a
horrid lawyer ; Salko, a frightful architect ; Schwabs, the
owner of seventeen setters ; Liou bo witch, a Tehinovvik,
almost as huge a creature as Kamenski ; a man whose
name I don't know ; my father, Michel, and Paul.
The whole lot were examining their guns, discussing
cartridges, drinking tea, and exchanging jokes which were
as insipid as they were vulgar. I except my father and our
two youths.
I took my place beside my father and our two guns : four
carriages followed close behind.
Do you know how a wolf-hunt is conducted in Russia ?
In the first place, pardon me if I commit unsportsmanlike
solecisms, for I don't know one word about it.
Well, this is what takes place : — Notice of the hunt is
fiven a week before to the district by the Starosta or
ailift', in order to get enough men to come. There was
a fair on at Poltava, so only a hundred and twenty came.
There are more than two hundred men, and the nets
were set over a space of six or eight kilometres. Prince
Kotchoubey sent nis nets, as he could not come to the
meet himself.
I was shivering. My father placed us all, without distinc-
tion, on each side of the road, counted us, and divided us into
two parties — the armed and the unarmed There were about
a score among the peasants who had guns ; to the others they
distributed pikes — that is to say, long sticks with an iron
fleur-de-lys at the end, as among the ancient Gauls. These
pikes are intended to kill, in a cowardly wuy, the beast which
is caught in the nets.
The nets are set in such a way as to catch the animal,
frightened by the shouts of the men, as soon as it passes
beyond the hunters who are lying in wait in the front.
The hunt is just beginning. The mounted Polish inten-
dant, in an oil-cloth cap shaped like a helmet, and with his
pike in hand — the said pike rising above his head and touch-
ing the ground, notwithstanding his being on horseback —
gallops hither and thither, and does nothing.
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218 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
I load my gun, adjust my game-bag (which contains a
handkerchief and a pair of gloves), cougn . . . and then
I am ready.
So here I am, alone, in the middle of the forest, with a
gun loaded and ready in my hands, dampness in my feet, and
cold everywhere, my steel-tipped heels were sinking into the
ground, which was sodden with yesterday's rain, and increased
the cold and hindered my walking. What do you think I
did as soon as I was alone i Oh ! it was very simple. First
of all I looked to see what was to be seen through the trees :
only a cold and grey sky. Next I looked round me, and saw
hign trees already touched with the autumn tints. Then,
noticing my father's cloak on the ground, I stretched myself
on it, and began to think . . . just at this moment I felt
something warm close to me ... I turned round . . .
Heavens ! . . . three animals ! dear caressing creatures — the
great black dog and two black puppies, Jonk I. and Jonk II.
At last I heard a gun-shot — the signal — and immediately
afterwards, in the distance, the shouts of our peasants. I got
wider awake the nearer they came ; and when they came near
enough to make one feel as one always does when a number
of people are yelling all together even in laughter, I stood up,
sprang to my gun, and pricked up my ears. The shouts
came nearer, and I already heard them beating the bushes
with their pikes to increase the racket
At every moment I seemed to hear crackling in the brush-
wood, for wolves prefer thick coverts.
The shouts still increased, and when the first of the men
came in sight, my heart was beating in jerks, and I even
think I trembled tor a moment However, the men were not
driving anything in front of them ; the nets had been empty.
After inspecting them they found nothing in them but a poor
hare, which the giant Kamenski killed with a kick — abomin-
able brute !
They congratulated each other on the general luck, and
walked in good spirits to the plain, where, under a hay or
straw stack, they sat down to eat pickled things and to drink
brandy. The peasants were regaled with roast mutton, pies
and brandy. That may sound grand, but it's quite customary
in Russia.
Those good animals — I mean, men — looked curiously
at the creature half woman and half man — or, rather
the woman with a gun — who smiled openly at them. My
father talked to them about the law concerning horses ; I
thought he was haranguing them on behalf of Servia.
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RUSSIA, 1876. 219
When we had rested we went back to the dark wood ;
but as they were hunting hares instead of wolves, we
had to 20 walking on ana on, following the twenty-nine
dogs with the hunter whom Prince Kotchoubey haa sent
yesterday.
The sun came out, and I should have been in good spirits
if fatigue had not taken the place of dampness. After walk-
ing for two hours we did not see a single hare's tail. I got
impatient, and finding our carriage I came home with my
father al paterno tetto. I had myself rubbed down with
scent, dressed, and came down-stairs to rejoin the others,
who had brought home three hares.
I was looking adorable (always relatively speaking, in so
far as I can be lovely) ; but it was quite thrown away — not
one of those monsters resembled a man.
With peasants I am frank and familiar- with my
equals in education I can be pleasant enougn, I think ;
but with boors like these ! To avoid having to talk to
them, I played at cards, and lost a hundred francs to the
giant.
Then they played again, and I went into the library to
write a letter to a horse-dealer at Petersburg. As usual, the
Erince followed me ; and after having begged me to give
im my hand to kiss, which I did, even without much
reluctance, the youth looked at me, sighed, and asked how
old I was.
" Sixteen."
"Very well, when you are five-and-twenty I shall court
you."
" Ah, very well."
" And then you will repulse me as you do now."
This brilliant day ended with a concert on the stairs.
My voice — the half of it, that is — transported them ; but I
believe that they didn't understand it a bit, and admired
haphazard.
Monday, September 23rd. — My father fetched me into the
gallery to see tne bridal of some peasants who had come to
pay their respects. They were married yesterday. The man
wore the usual dress — bfack boots up to the knees, loose dark
trousers, and a mvita, or kind of coat, gathered at the waist,
of undyed maroon cloth woven by the women of the district,
the shirt embroidered, with the plastron exposed, and a
coloured tie instead of the buttonhole.
The woman had on a skirt and a bodice like the man's
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220 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
in cut, but of a softer colour. And instead of having her
hair dressed with flowers and ribbons like the girls, her
head w&s swathed in a silk handkerchief, hiding her hair
and even her forehead, but leaving the ears and neck
exposed.
They went into the dining-room, followed by the grooms-
men, the bridesmaids, and those who had arranged the
marriage.
The husband and wife bent the knee thrice before my
father.
Wwlnesday, September 27tL — When I talk to my
father, I adopt a laughing tone, so that I can say what
I like. He was hurt by my last remark the day before
yesterday.
He complains ; he says he has led a foolish life, that he
has pleased himself, but that he feels something lacking,
that ne is not happy ....
I laughed at his sigh, and said, " With whom are you in
love now ?
" Do you want to know ? "
And here he blushed so red that he threw his arms round
his head to hide his face
" Yes, I do. Who is it ? "
" With mamma."
And as his voice shook, I was so touched that I burst
out laughing to hide it
" I knew you would not understand me ! " he ex-
claimed.
" Forgive me, but really this romantic matrimonial passion
is so unlike you . . . ."
" Because you do not know me ! But I swear, I swear
it is true — before this picture of my grandmother, before
this cross, my father's blessing ;" and he crossed him-
self before the picture and the cross which hung above
the bed.
" Perhaps it is," he went on, " because I always imagine
her to myself young, as she was then — because I see with the
imagination of the past. When they separated us, I was like
a madman ; I went on a pilgrimage on foot to pray to the
Virgin of Ahtirna. But they say that this Virgin brings you
ill-luck ; and it is quite true, for the breach got worse after
that. And then — shall I say it ? . . . you will laugh . . .
when you were living at Kharkoft', I went there alone by
stealth. I took a cab, and I watched your lodgings ; I stopped
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RUSSIA, 1876. 221
there a whole day to see her pass, and then I came back
without having been seen."
" If that were true, it would be very touching," said I.
"Tell me . . . since we are talking about mamma . . .
Is it that . . . has she any aversion for me / "
" Aversion ? No ; why should she ? Not at all."
"You know . . . sometimes . . . people have ... in-
superable antipathies to each other."
" No, no indeed ! "
After which we had a long talk about it.
I spoke of her as the saint she always is, ever since the
time wnen I remember to have understood.
It was late; I was going to sleep. Had I been in
my own room, I should nave had my supper, written, and
read.
This morning at eight o'clock we were going to start for
Poltava, when in came Mme. H£l&ne K , Pacha's mother,
an amiable hunchback, somewhat affected.
We had tea together, and then we started. My father has
been summoned to Poltava to take the chair.
It is cold, and rains occasionally. I went for a walk, and
then adjourned to the photographer's. I posed as a peasant
girl — standing, sitting, and lying asleep.
We met G
" Have you seen mv daughter ? " asked my father.
" Yes, Monsieur, I nave seen the "
" A better one was never created, was there ? There is
none better, and there never has been."
"Pardon me, Monsieur, but there was a time when
Olympus existed."
" Ah ! Monsieur G you are a payer of compliments, I
see."
The gentleman is rather ugly, rather dark, rather agree-
able, fit for good society, somewhat of an adventurer, some-
what of a gambler — a respectable man on the whole. At
Poltava he passes for very well informed and very gentlemanly.
The first touch of cola has forced me to put on my winter
furs. Put away as they had been, they kept the scent which
they had at Rome ; this scent, these furs . . .
Have you ever noticed that you only need a perfume, a
sound, a colour, to transport you in fancy to any place what-
ever { ... To pass the winter at Paris ? Oh no ! . . . .
Thursday, September 28th. — I am bored till I cry ; I want
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222 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
to go away ; I am unhappy here. I am losing my time, my
life ; I am wretched, I am getting mouldy, I suffer, I am set
on edge. Ah, that's the phrase !
This life gives me the horrors. Lord Jesus, save me
from this !
Friday, September 2Sth — I was in despair yesterday ;
I seemed to be chained to Russia for ever; it worked
me up till I was ready to climb over the wall ; and I cried
bitterly.
Pacha's mother worries me. Why ? Because she has
made several remarks which show me that her son has been
talking to her of me in very high terms. And when at last I
insisted on her making him come, she said, half in joke and
half seriously —
" No, no, he must stay where he is. You are bored here ;
and as you have nothing to do, you tease him ; he came back
to me quite crushed ana bewildered."
To which I replied with much candour —
" I don't think Pacha is the man to take offence at a few
friendly jokes. If I joke and tease him a little, it is because
he is my near relative — almost my brother."
She looked at me for some time, and then said —
" Do you know what is the height of folly ? "
"No.*
" Falling in love with Moussia."
Instinctively connecting this remark with sundry others, I
blushed up to my ears.
Sunday, October lsf. — Yesterday we went to see Prince
Sergius Kotchoubey.
My father made himself smart — so smart that his gloves
were just a little too tight
I was in white, as at the Naples races ; only I had a hat
made entirely of black feathers, of the fashionable classic
shape in Russia, which I don't like, but which is fitting to the
occasion.
The prince's country place is eight kilometres from
Gavronzi, the famous Dikanka whose praises have been sung
by Pouschkine at the same time as the loves of Mazeppa and
Marie Kotchoubey. The property has been much improved
by Prince Victor Pavlovitch Kotchoubey, the Chancellor of
the Empire and a remarkable statesman, the father of the
present prince.
In point of garden, park, and buildings, Dikanka might
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rival the Borghese and Doria villas at Rome. Apart from the
inimitable ruins of antiquity at Rome, which you can't get
elsewhere, Dikanka is perhaps even richer; almost a little
town in itself, simply the house and its offices, to say
nothing of the peasants' cabins. I was astounded to find a
dwelling like this in the midst of Little Russia. What a
pity! Its very existence is unknown. There are courts,
stables, workshops, machinery, factories. Building, manu-
facturing, and improving, are the prince's hobby. But as
soon as the door is opened, all likeness to Italy disappears.
The ante-room is mean compared to the rest It gives you
merely the idea of a nobleman's house ; but as to the
splenaour, the stateliness, and the divine art which entrance
you in Italian palaces — nothing at alL The prince is a man
of fifty or fifty-five ; a widower for, I think, the last two
years — a type of the Russian lord, one of the ancient regime
whom we are beginning to regard as animals belonging to a
different species from ourselves
His mien and his conversation put me out a little at first,
stupefied as I am at present, but after five minutes I was
quite happy.
He gave me his arm, and took me to see his chief pic-
tures, and through the large rooms. The dining-room is mag-
nificent. I was given the place of honour on the right, and
on my left were the prince and my father. Beyond him
again were several people who were not introduced, and who
came in and humbly took their seats — the feudal dependants
of the Middle Ages.
Everything went on capitally, when I felt suddenly
unwell and got giddy ; I rose, and indeed the meal was just
over.
We went into the Moorish drawing-room, where after
having sat down I nearly fainted. They showed me pictures,
statuettes, the portrait and blood-stained shirt of Prince Basil.
(The shirt is hanging in a cupboard, with the portrait for a
door.) I was taken to see the horses, but I could not look at
anything, and we had to leave.
Saturday, October 14f/i. — I have got some dresses from
Paris. I dressed, and went out with Paul.
Poltava is a more interesting town than one would think.
In the first place, as regards sights, there is the little church
of Peter the Great. It is wooden, with a brick casing to
preserve it ; between this sheath and the walls of the church
a man can easily pass.
Q
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224 MARIE BA8HKIRT8EFF.
Just by the side of the church is the column put up on
the spot where the Emperor condescended to sit down on a
stone and rest, after gaming the battle of June, 1709. The
column is of bronze.
I went into the old wooden church, knelt down, and
touched the floor with my forehead three times. They say
that if you do this in a church where you are for the first
time your prayer will be eranted.
Continuing my search for the sights, I went to see the
great convent of Poltava.
It* is on the top of the second hilL Poltava is built on
two hills.
There is nothing in particular there except the wonderfiilly-
carved wooden screen before the choir.
My ancestor, grandpapa Babanine's father, is buried there.
I paid my reverence to his tomb.
Tuesday, October 17th. — We were playing croquet
" Pacha, what would you do to the person wno has hurt
me — cruelly hurt me ? "
" I would kill him," said Pacha, simply.
" You have fine words on your tongue ; but you are joking,
Pacha."
" Are you ? "
They call me the devil, the tempest, the evil spirit, the
hurricane ; I have been all that since yesterday.
I only quieted down a little so as to deliver the most
contradictory opinions concerning love.
My cousin's notions are of ideal grandeur; Dante might
have borrowed from him his divine love for Beatrice.
" Of course I shall fall in love," he said ; " but I shall not
marry."
" Look here, Green Man, people who say such things get
thrashed."
" Because," he added, " I should like my love to endure for
ever — at any rate, in imagination ; retaining its divine purity
and vehemence. . . . Marriage extinguishes love, just because
it sets it going."
" Oh, oh ! * said I.
" Quite right," said his mother ; while the fierce orator got
red and collapsed, overcome by his own words.
And in the middle of all that I was looking at myself in
the glass, and cutting my hair, which had grown too long on
my forehead.
" Here," I said to the Green Man, throwing him a little
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RUSSIA, 1876. 225
tuft of golden-brown threads, "you can have this for a
keepsake."
He not only took the hair, but his look and his voice
faltered ; and as I wanted to take it again, he looked at me
very queerly, like a child who has got hold of a toy and thinks
it a treasure.
I gave my cousin Corinne to read, and he departed.
Corinne and Lord Melvil are crossing the bridge ot
Sant* Angelo. ... "It was when I was coming over this
bridge," said Lord Melvil, " returning from the Capitol, that
I thought long about you for the first time." Really, I don't
know what there is in this sentence .... but yesterday even-
ing it made me literally faint .... and it always does when-
ever I open the book.
Has not somebody said something of the kind to me ?
The words are quite simple; but there is some magic
about them. Is it their simplicity, or some association ?
Friday, October 20th. — At eight o'clock in the morning,
with the sky clouded and the black ground lightly powdered
with snow, like Mme. B 's face, we were already out
coursing. Michel brought over his pack of harriers. As
soon as I got into the fields I mounted, without taking off
my pelisse, which I fastened round my waist with a strap.
Three dogs in a leash were assigned me.
The frost, the snow, the horses, and the fine heads of the
dogs, filled me with joy ; I was in ecstasy.
Pacha, on horseback by my side, was very agreeable, which
doesn't become him at all, and puts me out. . . . Yet no ;
his fluctuations of temper are not to be despised.
" Pacha, there is some one who is dreadfully in my way
(don't be alarmed ; it isn't my aunt T ), and I should like
to politely annihilate that person."
" Very well ; command me."
"Really?"
"Try."
" On your honour ? And you won't tell any one ? "
" On my honour, not to anybody."
Owing to these few words, there is a sort of bond at
present between the Green Man and me.
We had to talk in a low voice, in English, when his
mother was not there.
Pacha wanted to go on being agreeable; so I gave him
both my hands to kiss, and a poem of Victor Hugo to read,
and I treat him like the brother he is.
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226 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Monday, October 23rd. — Yesterday we squeezed ourselves
into a six-horsed vehicle, and started for Poltava.
We had a pleasant journey.
My tears, as I was leaving the paternal roof, caused general
effusiveness; and Pacha exclaimed that he was madly in
love.
" I swear it is true ! " he cried ; " but I am not going to say
with whom."
" If you are not in love with me," I cried, " I curse
you ! "
My feet were cold, so he took off his pelisse and covered
them up with it
" Pacha, swear to tell me the truth.'
" Very well"
" With whom are you in love ? "
"Why?"
" I am interested. We are relatives ; I am curious to
know .... and, besides, it amuses me."
" It amuses you ; that's it"
" Of course \ but don't take the word in a bad sense. I
am interested in you because you are a good fellow."
" You know very well that you are joking, and that you
will laugh at me afterwards."
" I give you my hand and my word that I am not joking."
But my face was laughing. "With whom are you in
love ? "
" You."
" Really and truly V
" On my word. I never talk like the people in novels. Is
it necessary to fall on your knees, and utter a heap of tom-
foolery ? "
"Oh, my dear fellow, you are parodying some one, I
know. 1
" As you like, Moussia ; but I am speaking the truth."
" But what nonsenso it is ! "
" Of course ; that is just what I like about it It is a
hopeless love — what I wanted. I wanted to suffer, to worry
myself; and then, when the person in question has gone
away, I shall have something to think about, something
to regret. I shall be a martyr, and then I shall be
happy."
" Oh, green man ! "
" Green man ? Green man ? "
" We are brother and sister."
" No ; cousins."
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RUSSIA, 1876. 227
" Well, it's all the same."
" Oh no, it isn't."
Then I began to tease my lover. (Always the lover that I
don't want ft I sent Pacha back to Gavronzi, and started with
Paul At the station we saw Count M , who showed me
several small attentions there, and in the carriage.
They woke me up at the third station, and I passed,
half asleep, in front of the count, to hear him say to
me —
" I kept awake on purpose to see you pass."
I was met at Tcherniakovka, and I immediately went to
bed, thoroughly done up.
Etienne and Alexander, and their wives and children,
came, and found me in bed. I want to go back to my own
people. I feel better already, now that f am here. When I
get there, I shall be all right
I have seen my nurse Martha.
Thursday, October 24£A. — I did not have any childhood,
but the house in which I lived when I was quite little is
sympathetic, if not dear to me. I know everybody and
everything there. The servants — going down from father to
son, who have grown grey in our service — were astonished to
find me so grown up ; and I should delight in some pleasur-
able reminiscences, if my mind were not poisoned by other
preoccupationa
They called me Mouche, Mouka; and as I could not
aspirate the Russian " h ! " I said Moucha, like the French,
meaning, " martyrdom." A lugubrious coincidence !
- I dreamed of A for the first time since Nice.
Dominica and her daughter. arrived in the evening of the
same day, in answer to a note I sent them. We stopped a
long while in the dining-room, which opens into the drawing-
room by an undraped archway.
My Agrippina dress was a great success. I walked up and
down as I sang, so as to get over the fear which always comes
upon me when I sing.
Why should I write ? What have I to tell ? I must bore
my readers to death .... Patience !
Sixtus V. was nothing but a swineherd, and Sixtus V.
became Pope ! To go back.
Lola seemed to bring a breath of Roman air with her . . .
I imagined that we were coming back from the opera or the
Pincio.
Grandpapa's enormous library gives you a vast choice of
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228 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
curious and rare books. I have selected some to read with
Lola.
Thursday, October 26th. — Blessings on the railway ! We
are at Kharkoff, with the famous hotel-keeper Andrieux.
We started on horses thirty years old — grandpapa's horses.
And our departure was as good as a firework display, in its
simple pleasant gaiety. We breathe differently when we
are with people who only have kindly feelings towards
you.
My anger is gone, and I am dreaming of Pietro again.
At the theatre I was not listening to the play, I was dream-
ing. But then I am at the age which dreams about
anything whatever, so long as it can only dream about
something.
Ought I to go to Rome, or work at Paris ? Russia, under
the present circumstances, is intolerable. My father sum-
mons me by telegraph.
Saturday, October 27th. — When I got back to our old nest
from Tcherniakow, I found a letter from papa. And all the
evening Alexander and his wife did nothing but advise me to
take him with me to Rome.
" You can do it," said Nadine ; " do it ; it will be a real
piece of good fortune."
I replied in monosyllables, for I made a sort of promise to
myself not to speak about that to anybody.
When I got in, I took down one by one all the images of
saints covered with gold or silver; I shall put them in my
oratory over there.
Sunday, October 29th (October 17th). — I have taken down
Jie pictures, as I did the saints' images. There is a Veronese,
30 called, and a Dolci ; but I shall hnd out what they are at
Nice. When I was once set going, I wished to take every-
thing. Uncle Alexander seemed displeased ; but that was
all the difficulty. When once I had started, I was all
right.
Nadine has the neighbouring schools under her charge.
She has with admirable energy undertaken the work of
civilising our peasants.
I went out with Nadine this morning to see her school,
and then I tired myself out in sorting out my old clothes,
and giving them away right and left. A crowd of women
turned up, each one of whom had been our servant, or had
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something to do with the house ; I was obliged to give them
something.
I dont suppose I shall ever see Tcherniakow again. I
spent a long time in wandering from one room to another,
which gave me a great deal of pleasure. People laugh at
those who find sweet memories in furniture and pictures
wKich greet you and bid you farewell — who seem to
see friends in these pieces of stuff and wood which, by
dint of serving us and being constantly under our eyes,
take a share of our life, and become a part of our very
being.
Laugh away! The most subtle feelings are the most
easily turned into ridicule. And where ridicule reigns, the
finest delicacy of feeling disappears.
Wednesday, November 1st. — As soon as Paul went out, I
found myself alone with that good and praiseworthy being
whose name is Pacha.
" Well, do you like me still ? "
" Ah ! Moussia, how can a man tell you so 1 "
" Why, straightforwardly. Why tnis reticence ? Why
can't you be simple and frank ? I won't laugh at you. If I
do laugh, it is simply from nervousness — and nothing else.
Then you don't like me any more ? "
"Why?"
" Ah ! because . . . because ... I don't remember."
" It is impossible to talk of these things."
" If I don t please you, you may as well say so ; you are
quite frank enough for that, and I am indifferent enough . . .
Come, is it my nose ? my eyes ?
" Any one can see that you have never loved."
"Why?"
"Because directly you analyse features, either the nose
surpasses the eyes, or the eyes the mouth. . . . All that
means that you do not love."
" Quite true. Who told you so ? "
" No one."
" Ulysses ? "
" No," he answered. " I don't know what I like best . . .
I will tell you frankly ... it is your air, your manner — above
all, your character."
" It is a good one ? "
"Yes, unless you are acting, which one can't be always
doing/'
"True again . . . and my face ? "
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230 MARIE BA8HKIRT8EFF.
" It has beauties ... of the sort called classical"
" Yes, I know. And then ? "
"Then? There are some women we see pass by whom
we think pretty, and then think no more about them. . . But
there are other faces which ... are pretty and charming . . .
which leave a vivid impression behind, an agreeable feeling . . .
a fascinating one."
" Quite so . . . and then ? "
" What an inquisitor you are ! "
" I am improving the occasion by learning a little about
what people think of me. I shall not meet another in a
hurry whom I can question like this without compromising
myself. Now, how did this feeling come upon you — sud-
denly or gradually ? "
" Gradually."
"H'm!"
" It is all the better. It is more solid. What you love in
a day you leave off loving in a day ; while "
" Rhyme it ... * the other endures alway.'
" Yes, alway."
Our conversation lasted a good deal longer, and my feel-
ings of respect went up for this man whose love has the
reverence of a religion, and who has never sullied it with a
single profane word or look
"Do you like to talk about love?" I asked all of a
sudden.
" No ; it is profanation to talk of it lightly."
" But it's amusing."
" Amusing ! " he cried out.
" Ah ! Pacha, life is a great misery Have I ever
been in love ? "
" Never," he replied.
" Why do you think so ? "
" Because of your character ; you can only love capriciously.
.... To-day a man, to-morrow a dress, the next day a
cat"
" I am delighted to have people think so. And you, my
dear brother, have you ever been in love ? "
" I told you I have. Yes, I told you so. You know it."
" No, no ; I don't mean that," I replied, quickly, " but ever
before ? "
"No."
" That is strange. Now and then I think I am wrong, and
have taken you for more than you are."
We then talked of indifferent matters, and I went up to
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RUSSIA, 1876. 231
my room. There is a — no, we won't call him an excellent man,
the disenchantment would be too unpleasant He declared to
me a little while ago that he should go into the army — " To
win glory, I tell you, frankly."
Well, this remark coming straight from the heart, half
timid, half bold, and true as truth, gave me great pleasure.
Perhaps I am flattering myself, but it seems to me that
ambition was unknown to nim. I can recall what a strange
effect my first talk of ambition produced on him, and one
day, when I was talking of this while painting, the Green
Man suddenly got up and began to pace the room, mutter-
ing—
" Oh ! one must do something — one must do something ! "
Thursday, November 2nd. — My father cavils at me
about everything. Over and over again I feel inclined to
send everything to the devil ; but I restrain myself a hundred
times, which hurts me unspeakably.
It took me a world of trouble to get him to Poltava this
evening. There was a gathering of the nobility, at which a
quartet-player was giving a concert. I wanted to go, in order
to show myself, and nad no end of obstacles to overcome. As if
it weren't enough not to have procured me the least pleasure, to
have sent away those who might have been my companions
on equal terms, to have turned a deaf ear to all my hints,
and even my open request, about a wretched amateur
play ! As if that weren t enough ! And here after three
months of coaxing, of pretty caresses, of clever talk, of
amiability, I get a determined opposition to my going to
this miserable concert. That wasn't all, for I gamed my
point; but then I got a lecture on the choice of my dress.
He thought fit to impose a woollen dress on me — a walking-
dress! How petty all that is, how unworthy of intelligent
beings!
Idid not absolutely need my father — I had Nadine and
Alexander, Paul and racha — but I took him with me by a
whim, and to my great discomfort.
My father thought I looked too smart, so I had another
lecture; he was afraid I should look too different from the
Poltava ladies, and now he begged me to put on something
else — he who had besought me to dress like this at Kharkoff!
The result was a pair of mittens torn to pieces, eyes flashing
fury, a diabolical temper, and — no change in my get-up.
We came in when the concert was half over — I on my
father's arm, and my head in the air like a woman who
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232 MARIE BA8HKIRT8EFF.
knows she will be admired . . . Nadine, Paul, and Pacha
followed. I walked past Mine. Abaza without taking any
heed of her, and we took our seats in the first row by her
side.
I had been to call on Mile. Dietrich, who, now that she
was Mme. Abaza, did not return my call I bore myself with a
haughty insolence, and took no notice of her, notwithstanding
all her looks. We were soon surrounded by everybody. All
the noodles of the club, which is under the same roof, came
into the room " to look on."
The concert was soon over, and we departed with our
home escort.
"Did you bow to Mme. Abaza?" my father kept
asking.
"No."
And thereupon I gave him a piece of my mind, and ad-
vised him to be less contemptuous towards other people, and
to look at home first
I cut him to the quick, so that he went back to the club,
and came to tell me that the Abaza was appealing to all the
hotel servants, declaring that she had called on me the very
day before with her niece.
Otherwise, my father was radiant; he had been loaded
with compliments on my account
Saturday, November \th (October 23rd). — I ought to have
foreseen that my father would seize on all chances, great or
small, of revenging himself on his wife. I did, indeed, tell
myself so vaguely, but I trusted in God's goodness. Mamma
is not to blame ; no one can live with such a man. His true
nature revealed itself suddenly. Now I know.
It has been snowing all day ; the ground is white, and the
trees covered with hoar-frost, producing towards evening tints
of the most exauisite softness. I should like to plunge right
into that greyisn mist over the forest, it looks like a different
world.
But the even balance of the carriage, the sweet scent of
the first fall of snow, the mists of the evening — all those
calming influences failed to allay my starts of indignation at
the recollection of A , a recollection which dogs my steps
like a wild beast, and which will not give me a moment's
peace.
When we got home, we were scarcely in the drawing-
room when my father began to nag at me, and then, seeing
that I did not reply, he cned out —
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RUSSIA, 1876. 233
" Your mother says that I am to finish my days in the
country with her ! Never ! "
To reply would have meant quitting the place that
moment. This final sacrifice, I thought, and then at least I
shall have done all ; I shall have nothing to reproach myself
with. I remained seated, and said not a word; but I shall
long remember that moment, when my blood seemed to cease
to flow, and my heart to stop beating, only to palpitate after-
wards like a bird in agony.
I sat down at the table with a deliberate air, still holding
my peace. My father saw his mistake, and began to find
fault with everything, and to scold the servants, so as to have
an after-excuse for his irritation.
All at once he sat down on the edge of my arm-chair, and
put his arms round me. I immediately freed myself
" Oh no ! " I said, in a firm tone — without the slightest
tearfulness this time — " I won't stop near you."
"Yes, do!"
And he tried to turn it into a joke.
" But it is I who ought to be angry," he added.
"Therefore I am not. ... "
Tuesday \ November 7 th. — I have broken my looking-glass !
Death or a great misfortune ! This superstition freezes me ;
and when I look out of window, everything is more freezing
stilL Everything is white under a pearl-grey sky. I have
not seen such a picture for a long while.
Paul, with natural youthful eagerness* to show off a new
thing to a new-comer, had a little sledge harnessed, and
triumphantly took me for a drive. This sledge has no
business whatever to call itself so ; it consists of a few miser-
able pieces of wood nailed together, filled with hay, and
covered over with a piece of carpet. The horse, being very-
near, kicked up the snow into our faces and down our
sleeves, into my slippers, and into my eyes. The icy dust
covered the three rows of lace on my head, and, drifting into
the folds, froze there.
" You told me to come abroad the same time as you," the
Green Man suddenly observed.
" Yes ; not from a whim. You would do me a kindness
by coming, and yet you won't ! You never do anything for
me. Who will you do it for, then ? "
" Oh, you know very well why I can't come ! "
"No, I don't"
" Yes, you do ; you know that if I were to go with you I
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234 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
should be seeing you the whole time, and that it pains me
awfully."
"Why?"
" Because ... I love you."
" But you would bo so useful to me if you came."
" I be useful to you ? "
" Yes."
" No ; I can't come ... I will look at you from afar.
And if you only knew," he went on in a low and heart-
rending tone, "if you only knew how I suffer some-
times! ..."
" You will forget me."
" Never ! "
" What then ? "
There was no longer any trace of raillery in my tone ; I
was touched.
" I don't know," said he ; " but I find this state of things
intolerable."
"Poor thing!
I checked myself immediately ; this tone of pity is insulting.
Why is it so delightful to hear avowals ot the sufferings
we cause ? The more a man suffers for love of you, the
happier you are.
" Come with us ; my father will not take Paul away with
him. Come ! "
« T »
" You cannot — we know that I will not ask you again.
That's enough."
I assumed the air of an inquisitor, or of a person who is
preparing to enjoy a bit of mischief.
"Then I have the honour of being your first love?
Capital ! You are telling lies."
" Because my voice does not change, and I do not weep !
I have an iron will ; that's all"
" And I, who wished to give you . . . something."
"What?"
"This!"
And I showed him a little image of the Virgin, hanging
by a white ribbon round my neck.
" Give it to me."
" You don't deserve it."
" Ah, Moussia ! " said he, with a sigh, " I assure you that I
deserve it. I feel the attachment of a dog for you — a bound-
less devotion . . ."
" Qome, young man, and I will give you my blessing,"
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RUSSIA, 1876. 235
"Your blessing?"
"My true benediction. My object in making you talk
thus is to get some idea of the feelings of those who
love ; for, supposing I should some day set about falling in
love . . . well, it will be very needful for me to know the
symptoms."
" Give me that image," said the green young man, who
did not take his eyes oft it He knelt on the chair, over
the back of which I was leaning, and wanted to take the
image, but I stopped him.
" No, no ; round your neck.
And I slipped it round his neck, still quite warm, as it
came from me.
" Oh ! " he sighed, " thank you again and again for that ! "
And he kissed my hand of his own accord, for the first
time.
Wednesday, November Sth. — There is a fall of snow on the
ground, but the weather is bright and fine. We went out
again ; this time in a larger sledge — which was quite as badly
appointed — for the snow was not yet firm enough to bear
heavy iron sledgea Paul drove, and, taking advantage of the
occasions when Pacha was most uncomfortably seated, he
sent the horses at full speed and smothered us with snow,
making the Green Man shout, and your humble servant
laugh. He drove us through such bad roads, and into so
many snowdrifts, that we could do nothing but laugh and
Elead for mercy. Sledging, however serious your party may
e, is always like a child's gama
Paul was on my right, and Pacha on my left; I made
him pass his arm "behind me, so that this arm, his body,
and Paul's, made me a sort of arm-chair, which was very
comfortable.
The cold terrified me less. I wore only my pelisse and a
sealskin hat ; so that I was freer to move and speak.
In the evening I sat down to the piano, and played the
reading of the letter of Venus, a charming piece from the
Belle Hdeve.
What a delightful composition the Belle Hdene is !
Offenbach had begun his career, and had not yet grown
vulgar by composing penny operettas.
I played for a very long tune ... I don't now remember
what ; something slow and passionate, tender and adorable, as
only Mendelssonn's songs without words, when thoroughly
appreciated, can be.
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236 MAEIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
I took four cups of tea while talking of music.
" It has a great influence upon me," said the Green Man.
"I feel altogether strange; it affects me . . . sentimentally
. . . And while hearing it, one says what one would never
dare to say under other circuinstancea"
" Music is a traitress, Pacha ; distrust it, for it may make
you do many things you would not do in calm moments. It
seizes you, aosorbs you, draws you on . . . and the result is
terrible."
I talked of Rome and of Alexis the somnambulist. Pacha
listened and sighed in his corner; and when he came
near the light, the expression of his face told me better
than all the words in the world what the poor fellow
suffered.
(Do you notice this fierce vanity ; this eagerness to set
down the ravages one causes. I am a vulgar coquette — or,
rather ... no ; a woman, that's all)
" We are melancholy this evening," I said, gently.
"Yes," he replied, with an effort; "you have played,
and ... I don't know ; I have a fever, I think."
" Go and sleep, my friend ; I am going up-stairs ; but just
help me to carry my books."
Thursday, November 9th. — My stay here will, at all events,
have enabled me to become acquainted with the magnificent
literature of my native land. But of what do our poets and
writers speak ? ... Of other lands than ours. Let us take
Gogol first, our great humourist ; his description of Rome has
made me weep and groan, and it is impossible to form any
idea of it without reading it
To-morrow it will be translated, and those who have
had the good fortune to see Rome will understand my
emotion.
Oh ! when shall I get away from this country — so grey,
so cold, so harsh, even in summer, even in the bright sun-
light! The foliage is pinched, and the sky is not so blue
as . . . yonder.
Friday, November 10th. — I have been reading up to
this moment. ... I am disgusted with my Journal, and
feel anxious, discouraged. . . . Rome is all that I can
sa y-
I have remained for five minutes holding my pen, without
writing, for I don't know what to say; my heart is so full.
The time is drawing near when I shall see A again, and
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RUSSIA, 1876. 237
a feeling of dread comes over me. Still, I believe that I do not
love him — and may even say that I feel sure of it. But this
recollection, this annoyance, this imeasiness as to the future,
this dread of an affront .... A ! How this word is
constantly coming to the tip of my pen! and how I
hate it !
You think I wish to die. What fools you all are !
I adore life just as it is, and bless the vexations, heart-
rendings, and tears, which God sends, and feel quite
happy.
In fact . . . the idea of being unhappy has become so
familiar, that communing with myself, alone in my own room,
far from the world, and from all human beings, I say to
inyseli that I am perhaps, after all, not so much to be
pitied. . . . Why do I weep, then ?
Saturday, November 11th. — This morning, at eight
o'clock, I left Oavronzi ; but not without a slight feeling of
regret. . . No ; 1 should rather say, of unwillingness to
leave.
All the servants came into the courtyard, where I gave
money to each, and a gold bracelet to the housekeeper. The
snow was melting; but quite enough remained to splash
throughout the journey. And though I was most desirous of
keeping my face uncovered, in order to make philosophical
observations, like M. Prudhomme, I was compelled, by a
pitiless wind, to muffle myself up entirely.
I went straight to uncle Alexander's, whose name I
found on the doorplate, and he told me the following
anecdote : —
" A civilian and an officer, who were travelling, entered the
same carriage, and a desultory conversation arose respecting
the new law about horses.
" ' Are you, Monsieur, the person who has been sent into
our district ? ' asks the civilian.
" * Yes, Monsieur/
" ' Then you have doubtless taken note of Marshal
Bashkirtseff's lijjht bay horses ? '
" ' Yes, Monsieur, I have.'
" And the officer proceeded to state their good and bad
points.
" ' Do you know Mile. Bashkirtseff? '
" ' No, Monsieur ; I have not the honour — I have seen her ;
but I know M. Bashkirtseff. Mile. Bashkirtseff is a delight-
ful person; she is a perfect beauty — but an independent,
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238 MARIE BA&EKIRT8EFF.
original, and naive beauty, t met her in a carriage near
St. Petersburg, and I and my companions were quite struck
with her/
" ' That is all the pleasanter to ine/ said the civilian, ' as I
am her uncle/
" ' Indeed ! '
" ' My name, Monsieur, is Soumorokoft. May I ask yours ?
"'Babanine/
"'Delighted.'
"'Charmed/ &c. &c/
The count persisted in saying that my place was at St.
Petersburg, and that to keep me at Poltava was detestable.
Ah ! my father.
" But, uncle," said I to Alexander, " you have, no doubt,
invented all this."
" If I have invented a single word, may I be struck dead,
and never see my wife and children again."
My father is in a fury, to which I pay no attention.
Poltava, Wednesday, November !5tL — I started on
Sunday night with my father, after having seen Prince
Michel and the others during my last two days in
Russia.
Only my own family have come with me to the station,
but many strangers are looking with curiosity at our
baggage.
The journey to Vienna alone costs me about five hundred
roubles. I paid for everything myself The horses are going
with us, under the care of Uhocoiat, and Kouzma my father's
valet.
I was going to take one of the other men ; but Kouzma,
burning with the desire to travel, came and begged me in the
Russian fashion to take him.
Chocolat will keep watch ; for Kouzuia is a sort of
lunatic who would be very likely to forget everything
while star-gazing, and let his horses or even his coat be
stolen.
Having married a girl who had long loved him, he ran
away after the ceremony into the garden, and remained
there over two hours, crying and lamenting like a madman.
I think he is a little crazy ; and his scared look seems to
prove it
My father was still in a rage. As for me, I walked up and
down the station as though I nad been at home. Pacha kept
at a distance, looking at me all the time.
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RUSSIA, 1876. 239
At the last moment it was discovered that a parcel was
missing; a perfect storm of excitement arose, and there
was a rush in all directions. Ainalia was justifying herself,
and I was finding fault with her for not looking after the
things. The lookers-on listened with amusement ; and seeing
that, I became doubly eloquent in the language of Dante. I
was enjoying the fun — particularly as the tram was waiting
for us. The best of this pitiful country is that we do have
our own way in it Alexander, Paul, and Pacha, got
into the compartment; but the third bell was announcing
the time for departure, and there was quite a crowd rouna
me.
"Paul, Paul," the Green Man was saying, "let me at
least say good-bye to her."
" Make room for him," I said.
He kissed my hand, and I kissed him on the cheek, near
the eye. This is the custom in Russia, but I had never con-
formed to it We were waiting only for the whistle, which
soon sounded.
" Well ! " I exclaimed.
" I shall still have time," said the Green Man.
The train began to move slowly on, and Pacha com-
menced to talk very fast, but without knowing what he was
saying.
" Good-bye — good-bye ; iump off, do ! "
" Yes, adieu — good-bye ! '
And he jumped on to the platform, after having again
kissed my hand. It was the kiss of a faithful and respectful
dog.
" Come ! come ! " my father was calling out from the com-
partment, for we were m the passage of the carriage.
I came to him ; but I was so grieved at the pain of which
I was the cause that I immediately threw myself down and
closed my eyes in order to think auietlv.
Poor Pacha! Dear and noble fellow! If there is any
thing I regret in Russia it is this heart of gold, this loyal
disposition, this upright spirit Am I really grieved?
Yes; for could I fail to feel just pride in havmg such a
friend ?
This Tuesday night I slept in a bed as comfortable as at
the hotel.
I am at Vienna. Physically speaking, my journey has
been perfect; I have slept well, have had a good appetite,
and I am clean. This last item, the most important, is only
R
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240 MARIE BA8RKIRT8EFF.
possible in Russia where wood is used for fuel, and where
the railway carriages have dressing-rooms attached. My
father has been fairly good-tempered ; we played cards, and
made fun of the other travellers. But this evening it was the
old story again.
He took a box at the opera, but refused to take me, except
in my travelling-dress.
" You take advantage of my position," I said to him ; " but
you shall not have the satisfaction of playing the tyrant over
me. I will not go. Good-night ! "
And here I am, in my own room. What a position!
Indeed, I am penniless ; for I have only got drafts on Paris
which will be of no use to me until I get there.
Being obliged to give up my horses, I left five hundred
roubles to Kouzma, and had nothing left but the drafts.
This I told my father, who was offendea, and, placing himself
in his most noble attitude, shouted that he cared nothing for
expense— that to spend money for me was nothing to nim,
he had spent so much in his life.
You feel yourself in Europe here; the sight of lofty
and imposing houses raises my spirits almost as high as
their top storey. The low-built habitations of Poltava
crushed me. But I do regret the lights in the carriages
yesterday.
Saturday, November \&tlu — This morning, at five o'clock,
we arrived in Paris.
There was a telegram from mamma at the Grand HoteL
We engaged rooms on the first floor. I took a bath, and then
waited for mamma. I am, however, so despairing that no-
thing any longer affects me. She arrived with Dina ; Dina —
happy, calm, and carrying on her work of sister of mercy and
guardian angeL
You may imagine that I was never more confused. Papa
and mamma! I did not know where to look. There were
several jars, but nothing very serious.
My mother, my fatner, myself, and Dina, went out to-
gether to the theatre. I sat in the darkest corner of the box ;
my eyes were so heavy with sleep that I could scarcely see.
Tiiat night I slept with mamma ; and instead of endearing
words after such a long absence, nothing but a torrent of
complaints came from my lips — which, however, very soon
came to an end, for I fell asleep.
Monday, November 20th. — After dinner we went to see
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PARIS, 1876. 241
Paul and Virginia, V. Masses new opera, which is most
highly spoken of. The Parisian boxes are instruments of
torture. We were a party of four, in one of the first
boxes, at one hundred and fifty francs, but we could not
move.
An interval of an hour or two between dinner and the
play, a roomy and comfortable box, an elegant and suitable
dress — these are the conditions necessary for the appreciation
and worship of music. I was in quite the contrary position,
which did not, however, prevent me from listening with all
my attention to Engally, the Russian actress; nor from
keeping my eyes fixed on Capoul, the darling of the fair
sex. The fortunate artist, certain of admiration, acted as
though he were in a fencing school, uttering the most
piercmg notes. . . .
It is already two o'clock in the morning. Mamma, who
sacrifices everything for me, and thinks only of my well-being,
has long ago spoken to my father. But my father replies
only by jests, or by words so indifferent as to be quite
revolting.
He says at last that he quite understands the step I am
taking, that even mamma's enemies will only think it quite
natural, and that his daughter, having attained the age of
sixteen, ought to have her father as chaperon He accord-
ingly promises to come to Rome as we haa proposed.
If I could only believe it !
Friday, November iUh. — Until the evening all went on
smoothly enough; but suddenly a very serious, temperate,
and well-meant conversation arose concerning my future.
Mamma expressed herself in most appropriate terms in
every respect.
This was the time to see rav father ! He kept his eyes
fixed on the ground, and whistled ; but as to replying, not a
bit of it
The following is a specimen of a Little Russian dialogue
which is characteristic of the nation, and which will at the
same time give an idea of my father's style : —
Two Peasants': — •
First peasant : " We were walking together on the high-
road ? "
Second peasant : " Yes, we were walking."
First peasant : " We found a pelisse ? "
Second peasant : " We found it."
First peasant : " I gave it to you."
R 2
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242 MARIE BASHKIRT8EFF.
Second peasant : " You did."
First peasant : " You took it."
Second peasant : " I did take it"
First peasant : " Where is it ? "
Second peasant : "What?"
First peasant : " The pelisse."
Second peasant : " What pelisse ? "
First peasant : " We were walking on the high-road ? "
Second peasant : " Yes."
First peasant : " We found a pelisse."
Second peasant : " We did."
First peasant : " I gave it to you."
Second peasant : " You gave it to me."
First peasant : " You took it"
Second peasant : " I took it"
First peasant : " Where is it, then ? "
Second peasant : "What?"
First peasant : " The pelisse."
Second peasant : " What pelisse ? "
And so on to infinity ; but I found no amusement in the
subject. I felt suffocated, and there was a lump in my throat
which hurt me dreadfully, especially as I would not allow
myself to cry.
I wished I could go away with Dina, and leave mamma
with her husband at the Russian restaurant.
For a whole hour I sat motionless, with rigid lips and a
feeling of oppression on my chest ; I did not know what I was
thinking of, nor what was going on around me.
Then my father came and kissed my hair and hands and
face with hypocritical sympathy, and said to me —
" Should you ever really be in want of help or protection,
say but one word to me, and I will assist you.'
I collected my remaining strength, and suppressing my
rising gorge I replied —
"The day has come ; where is your assistance ? "
" At present you do not need it," he answered, hurriedly.
" Indeed, I do."
"No, no!"
And he changed the subject
" Do you think, father, that the day will ever come when I
shall be m need of money ? When that day does come I will
become a singer or pianiste ; but I will not ask you for
anything."
He did not take offence; it satisfied him to see me
miserable to the last degree.
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PARIS, 1876. 243
Saturday, November 25th. — Mamma is so ill that it is
out of the question to take her to Versailles. Our friends
called for us. I was dressed in white, as usual; but I
wore a cap of black velvet, which suited my fair hair ad-
mirably. It was raining. We were already in the compart-
ment, when a gentleman, still young, but decorated with the
order of the Legion of Honour, appeared.
" Allow me, my dear," said the baroness, " to introduce
to you M. J. de L , one of the leaders of Napoleon's
party/' I bowed; while other introductions were going on
around me.
This procession of deputies brought to my mind the row
of pigeon-shooters in Monaco ; but instead of guns they have
portfolios. MM. de L placed us in the front seats, just
above the Bonapartists ; so that we were immediately opposite
the Republican oenches. The room, or at least the President's
chair and the Tribune, also reminded me of the pigeon
shooting ; only, instead of holding the string of the cages,
Monsieur Gr6vy was struggling with the bell, which did not
keep the left-hand party from interrupting repeatedly the
excellent speech of Monsieur Dufaure, Keeper of the Great
Seal
He was an upright man, who had fought bravely and with
great ability against the infamies of the Republican dogs.
November 26th. — My father has gone ; this is the first
time I have been able to breathe freely for four months.
November 28th. — Mamma took me to Doctor Fauvel, who
examined my throat with his new laryngoscope, and declared
me to be suffering from catarrh and chronic sore throat, &c.
(I do not doubt this statement when I consider the bad state
of my throat) ; also that I shall require six weeks of powerful
treatment. We shall therefore be compelled to spend the
winter in Paris. Alas !
My father is acting in a delightful manner, to say the least
of it First of all, he made me spend money while I was
staying with him, and he did not pav the expenses of my
journey ; then, feeling ashamed, he spoke to uncle Alexander,
and went so far as to embrace him, and to declare that he
would refund all my expenses. He need not have said
anything about it, as no one had asked him for anything.
He next allowed his Kouzma to go with his ill-omened
horses, and I paid Kouzma's travelling expenses. And
now here is mamma opening a letter addressed to ray
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244 MARIE BJLSHKIRT8EFF.
father from this very man : — " I am awaiting your instruc-
tions, sir; having stopped here on my way. As regards
Chocolat, I have sent him back to Poltava, according to
your orders."
And mind, my dear father has compelled me to
give Kouzma 500 roubles, which he is in a fair way to
eat up on his road. Upon my word, it is a handsome
present !
" You have banished all society from your daughter, so
that it might be said that nobody wanted her. You have
hidden her because you did not wish her to be seen as she is,
having never given a sou of your own towards her education."
This is what mamma said ; and he answered by little stupid
and disgusting jokes, without ever attempting to deny the
fact, or to justify himself in any way.
Friday, December ls£. — We left Paris yesterday ; mamma,
with her thirty-six parcels, worked me up to a pitch of
desperation. Her cries, her frights, and her boxes, are
excruciatingly vulgar . . .
At last !
Nice, Saturday, December 2nd. — My aunt brought me
some coffee herseli ; I got two or three boxes unpacked, and,
for the first time since my travels, felt myself again. In
Russia I had no *un ; in Paris, no dresses.
I beg you to observe my style of life. Packing and
unpacking, trying on, buying, and travelling. The same thing
over and over again.
When I went into the garden I found M. Pelican with his
doctor, Broussais ; Ivanoff, grandpapa's oculist ; General Wolf,
General Bihovitz, and the Anitchkoffs. I had to show myself
in order to please my mothers (aunt and mother), who are de-
lighted to see me getting stouter. There's happiness for you !
But I leave them all to go and see my women of the Rue de
France.
What a reception !
They told me of all the marriages, deaths, and births. I
asked how business was getting on.
" Badly," I was told.
" Ah well," I exclaimed, " all has been going wrong since
France became a republic."
This set me going. When it was known that I had visited
the Chamber, the company drew back in awe, and afterwards
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NICE, 1876. 245
crowded round me. Then, with one arm akimbo, I made
them a speech, well sprinkled with oaths and exclamations
in the aialect of Nice, shewing them the Republicans
with their hands in the people's gold, like my hands
in this rice — and I plunged my paw into a sack of
rice. . . .
After such a long absence the sky of Nice enraptures me ;
when I breathe the pure air, and look at the clear sky, my
heart leaps with delight.
The sea is slightly silvered by the sun, veiled under clouds
of a soft and warm grey. The verdure is dazzling. . . How
lovely it all is, and how delightful it would be to live in such
a paradise! I started to walk on the promenade without
troubling myself about the fact that I was hatless, and that
there were many people passing by. Then I went in to
put on a hat, ana to ask my aunt and Bihovitz to come out
with me. I walked as far as the Pont du Midi, and returned,
being seized with a fit of intense sadness.
After all, the family circle has its charms. There has been
card-playing and laughter ; tea has been served ; and I have
felt pleasure at being amongst my own people, and surrounded
by my beloved dogs — Victor, with his great black head ;
Pincio, white as snow; Bagatelle, Prater . . . All this was
before my eyes, and at this moment I see the old men making
up their table ; those dogs ; that dining-room ... Oh ! it
oppresses, it suffocates me ; I should like to take flight ; I
feel chained up as in a nightmare. / cannot stand it ! I was
not made for such a life. I cannot stand it ! For an instant
I felt some vanity in talking on serious subjects with the
older men . . . but after all they are only obscure old men .
What good can they do me ?
I so much dread remaining at Nice that the thought
drives me mad. It seems to me that another winter will be
lost, and that I shall get nothing done.
The chances of working are denied me ! General Bihovitz
sent me a large basket of flowers, and in the evening mamma
watered it to keep the flowers fresh . . . Well, these little
nothings madden me beyond endurance ; and this affectation
of bourgeoisie makes me desperate.
All ! divine mercy ! ah ! oy the God of heaven, I assure
you that I am not jesting !
As I came in from tne pavilion, a bewitching moonlight
lighted up my roses and magnolias . . . This poor garden
which has inspired me with nothing but sad thoughts and
atrocious vexation !
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246 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
I went back to my room ; my eyes were moist and sad —
so sad.
The recollections of Rome overpower me . . . But I
will not go back there. We will go to Paris . . . Oh, Rome !
Why cannot I see Rome again, or else die here? I hold
my breath, and stretch myself as if I wished to lengthen
out as far as Rome.
Sunday, December 3rd. — The changes in the sky are my
only amusements. Yesterday it was pure, and the moon
shone like a pale sun ; to-night it is fiill of dark fitful clouds,
amongst which clear and brilliant patches like last night
are visible. I made these observations on my way from the
summer-house to my own room.
In Paris there is no such air, no such verdure, nor the
sweet rain that fell last night
Thwrsday, December 7th. — Petty domestic worries dis-
hearten me.
I plunge deeply into serious reading, and see with despair
how little I know. It seems to me that I shall never know
all. I envy learned men, even those who are yellow, ema-
ciated, and ugly.
I am in a fever to study, and have no one to guide
me.
Monday, December 11th. — I become every day more
enthusiastic about painting. I have been indoors all day, and
have played music which exalted my mind and my heart
It was not till I had conversed for two hours with grandpapa
on the history of Russia that I felt composed again. I
hate to be . . . sensitive ... In a young girl it means
all sorts of littlenesses. Grandpapa is a walking cyclo-
paedia.
I know somebody who loves me and understands me,
£ho feels for me, and spends an entire life in making me
"happier — somebody who will do everything for me, and who
will succeed — somebody who will never again betray me,
though that happened once. And that somebody is myself.
Let us not expect anything from men, for we shall find
nothing but deceptions and sorrows.
But let us believe firmly in God and our own strength.
And as I am so ambitious I will justify my ambition by
accomplishing something.
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NICE, 1876. 247
Monday, December ISth. — Yesterday I was awakened to
read a card from my father, which bore these words : "I am
at the Hdtel du Luxembourg with my sisters ; come, if you
can, directly."
By the advice of my mother, at one o'clock precisely I
accept this invitation, and again before going in I ask if it is
proper. All the answer I get is that my graceless father
and aunt Helene come to the carriage and carry me off very
affectionately to their rooms.
Aunt H61&ne and the princess do not interfere with
anything ; they speak to me of the Cardinal, and advise me
to go to Rome in search of his nephew and his money.
" The poor young man is over there," said I.
"Where?"
" In Servia."
" Oh no ! he is at Rome."
Perhaps he has come back as there is no more fighting ;
I dined yesterday with a Russian volunteer just arrived from
Servia.
Afterwards we talked of Tutcheff ; I treated her in the
most contemptuous manner, threatening her with an accu-
sation for libel
Let them attack my family or my mother ; they have it in
their power to defend themselves. But let them not touch
me ; for as true as I am a defenceless creature, whom it would
be cowardly to slander, I will revenge myself bravely — for the
very good reason that I fear nothing.
San Remo, Saturday, December 23rd. — My father con-
sents to come with me for two days, but accompanied by
mamma.
While awaiting mamma, to whom I have telegraphed,
asking her to come, I am spending a few hours at Villa Rocca
with rrincess Eristoff. Aunt Romanoff — heroic creature ! —
remains in solitude at the hotel. She naturally refuses to
associate with the society I frequent. But do you see the
part this woman is playing to humour my caprice ? I adore
her!
Monday, December 25th. — My father and mother and
myself left San Remo yesterday. What were my thoughts
during the journey ? Of course, charming dreams and castles
in the air dominated all other feelings, and created for me,
as usual, a life quite distinct from all things human. This
agreeable state was interrupted by the stopping of the train
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248 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
near Albiasola station, because of a land-slip on the line.
So we were obliged to get out, to lay hold of our luggage,
and walk for a few minutes to meet another train wnich
was coming to pick us up. All this took place by the
flickering light of torches, which against a black sky, and
accompanied by the roar of the angry waters, was most
picturesque.
This accident was the occasion of our entering into con-
versation with our fellow-travellers, one of whom was a
military man. The}' carried our bags, and helped us also
through this difficult passage. The officer was a tolerably
well-educated and intelligent man, and to his surprise I drew
him into a serious and even rather wild conversation — on
politics.
As soon as dawn came I was at my window, so that I
might not lose for a single moment the sight of the country
near Rome.
Why can't I express all the beautiful things it brings to
my mind, and which so many others have saia so often, and
in such charming language ?
I was so absorbed in looking out for the different places
.... the front of our train was already under the glass roof
of the station, and I was still looking out for the crowded
roof of San Giovanni di Laterano. The wife of the Spanish
Ambassador was there ; she had come to meet some ladies. I
turned away my head when she recognised me; I was ashamed
of coming back to Rome .... I fancied that I was looked
upon as an ... . intruder.
We alight at the old hotel, and take the same rooms. I
fo up-stairs, and lean on the knob at the corner of the
anisters, as I had done the other night.
With an angry glance at the staircase door I take pos-
session of the red damask room .... Would you believe
it ? — with thoughts of Pietro.
Wednesday, December 27th. — Mamma was talking of the
death of Rossi, when this amiable lobster came caracoling in
behind us.
" Well," said he, after the preliminary civilities, " so poor
Pietro A has lost his uncle."
" Yes, poor fellow ! Has nothing been left to him ? "
" Oh yes, the plate."
This produced much gaiety. After which I asked Rossi,
with very easy frankness, what had been said. (We were
talking in Italian.)
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ROME, 1876. 249
" You see," I added, " we are not known, and I might very
well be taken for one of those foreigners who come to Rome
to look out for a husband."
We talked for some time, and I am almost convinced
that the company did not attach any importance to the
incident.
" No one has thought of him in regard to you ; he is a
Eoor fellow without fortune or position. At first it was
elieved. ... In any case, you nave given him a shock,
and he will now perhaps amend his ways — that is to say,
improve.
" But he is a ne'er-do-welL"
" Oh dear no ; poor young fellow ' He is suffering very
much. . . ."
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250
CHAPTER V.
NICE, ROME, NAPLES, FLORENCE, SCHLANGENBAD, PARIS, 1877.
Nice, Wednesday, January 17 tL — When shall I know
what love is, of which I hear so much ? I might have loved
A ; but I despise him. I did love the Duke of H to
distraction when I was a child ; it was a love due entirely to
the fortune, renown, or extravagances of the Duke, and to an
unregulated imagination. . . .
Tuesday, January 23rd. — Yesterday evening I had such a
fit of despair that I groaned aloud, and felt impelled to throw
the dining-room clock into the sea. Dina ran after me, fear-
ing that I had some sinister design; but it was only the
clock, after all It was of bronze, with a Paul without a
Virginia fishing with rod and line, and wearing a very be-
coming hat Dina comes to my room ; the incident of the
clock seems to amuse her very much. I laughed also. Poor
clock !
Princess Souvaroff came to see us.
Thursday, February 1st. — The ladies were preparing to
go and get rid of a few miserable hundreds of francs
at Monaco. I brought them to their senses by a most bitter
speech, and mamma and I went for a drive in a basket
carriage, to show ourselves in the daylight, and to call on the
Countess de Ballore, who is so amiable, and whom, like ill-
bred persons, we neglect.
We saw Diaz de Soria, the incomparable singer. I in-
vited him, as he had called. It seemed to me that I saw a
friend in him. I feel just in the mood to betake myself
to that stage-box on tne left-hand side of the pit at the
Th<re Franyais, where Agar of the Com6die Fran9aise com-
pany is playing. I have heard Les Horaces. The name of
Rome has over and over again rung in my ears with a superb
and sublime sound.
On coming home I read Livy. The heroes, the folds of
the togas . . . the Capitol, the Cupola . . . the bal masqui,
the Pincio ! . . . O Rome !
Ranie, Thursday, February 8th. — I fell asleep at Ven-
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ROME, NAPLES, 1877. 261
timiglia, and did not wake up again, morally and physically
speaking, till I got to Rome. I was obliged to remain there
till the evening, in spite of my wish to go, for the train to
Naples does not start before ten o'clock. A whole day at
Rome!
At twenty minutes past nine I left Rome; I went to
sleep, and found myself at Naples. I had not, however,
slept soundly enough not to hear an irritable gentleman
who was making complaints to the conductor about the
presence of Prater. The gallant conductor stood up for
our dog.
But here we are at Naples. I wonder if you feel as I do
at the approach of a large and beautiful city ; I am seized
with palpitations, and become restless. I should like to have
the town all to myself It takes us more than an hour to
get to the Hdtel du Louvre. The streets are obstructed, full
of noise, and in a state of dreadful disorder. The heads
of the women here are something too extravagant; they
might pass for those female monsters exhibited in menageries
with serpents, tigers, &c. At Rome I like only what is old ;
at Naples I admire only what is new.
Sunday, February 11th. — To understand our position in
the Toledo, one must know by experience what it is to be
there on a day when it is the custom to throw coriandoli
(comfits made of chalk or flour). But he who has not seen it
can have no idea of these thousands of hands with black
and scraggy arms, these rags, these splendid carriages, these
feathers and gilt decorations, but especially of those hands
and fingers whose agility is enough to make even Liszt him-
self die of jealousy. Amidst this rain of flour, these cries, this
swarm of people, we were suddenly dragged off* by Altamura,
and almost carried to his balcony. There we met a number
of ladies . . . and all these amiable people were offering me
refreshments, and smiling. I retired to a naif-lighted drawing-
room, and there, covered from head to foot m my cloak, I
began to weep, while at the same time admiring the antique
folds of the woollen mantle. I was very sad, but it was a sad-
ness mixed with pleasure. Do you feel a pleasure in sadness,
as I do ?
Naples, Monday, February 26th. — I continue my ex-
cursions, and we go to San Martino, an ancient convent I
never saw anything so sympathetic. Most museums bore
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252 MABIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
you, but the one at San Martino is amusing and attractiva
The syndic's old carriage . . . and Charles Ill's galley have
turned my head ; and then these corridors with mosaic floors,
these ceilings with their grand mouldings ! The church and
the chapels are marvellous; their moderate size enables you to
appreciate the details. What a collection of splendid marbles
of precious stones, of mosaics in every corner, from floor
to ceiling! I don't remember seeing any striking paint-
ings, excepting those of Guido Reni and of Spagnoletto ;
the careful works of Fra Buonaventura ; the old Capo-di-
Monte porcelains; the portraits worked in silks; and a
picture on glass representing the episode of Potiphar's wifa
The white marble courtyard with its sixty pillars is of rare
beauty.
Our guide tells us that there are only five monks remain-
ing — three brethren and two laymen, who live somewhere
aloft in one of the forsaken wings. We go up a sort of
tower with two balconies overhanging other heights which
look like precipices; the view from that point is astound -
ingly beautiful Mountains, villas, plains, and Naples itself,
are visible through a sort of blue mist imparted to it by
the distance.
"What is eoing on to-day in Naples?" I said, in a
listening attituae.
"Oh, nothing," the guide answered, smiling; "you only
hear the Neapolitans."
" Then do you always hear it ? "
" Yes ; always."
A continual roar and clamour rose from the mass of roofe
below, an uninterrupted explosion of voices, which you have no
idea of in the town itself It produces a sort of terror ; while
the confused murmur, rising with that blue vapour, makes you
realise, with a sensation of giddiness, to what a height you
have climbed.
I am enraptured with these marble chapels. A country
Kssessing such treasures as Italy is the richest in the worla.
dy, as compared with the rest of the world, seems to me a
magnificent picture beside a whitewashed walL
How could I presume to form an opinion of Naples last
year ? Had I seen it even ?
Saturday, March 3rd. — To-night I went to church —
it is in the hotel itself; there is an infinite charm in medi-
tating on love under the roof of a church. When I saw
the priest, the images, the lighted tapers imparting waver-
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NAPLES, 1877. 253
ing shadows to the darkness, I remembered Rome. Divine
ecstasy ! heavenly perfume ! exquisite rapture ! Oh for the
power to write !
The feelings which absorbed me could only be ex-
pressed in song. The pillars of St. Peter's, its marbles and
mosaics; the mysterious depth of the church ; the bewil-
dering splendour and majesty of art, antiquity, the Middle
Ages, great men and their monuments — all this passed
before me.
Saturday, March 'Slst. — What is the good of complain-
ing ? My tears are vain ; I am doomed to unhappiness.
Unhappiness yet a little while longer, and then for the
artist's fame ! And if ... I should fail ! . . . Have no
fear; I shall not live to moulder away in some corner
amid domestic virtues. I will talk no more of love, for I
have used its name to no purpose. I will not call upon God
any more ; I want to die. O God, Lord Jesus Christ, let me
die ! I have lived but a short time, yet I have been
taught much; everything has been against me. I want to
die ; I am incoherent ana confused, like my writings ; I hate
myself as I hate everything that is wortUess.
Let me die ... . my God! let me die! I have had
enough of it !
On, for an easy death ! to die while singing one of Verdi's
beautiful airs. I feel no spite, as I used to do when I wished
to live on purpose to prevent others from rejoicing and
triumphing over me. Now, I suffer too much to care.
Sunday, April 1st. — I am like the patient and inde-
fatigable chemist who spends his nights before his retorts so
as not to lose the expected and longed-for moment. It seems
to me every day that it must come, and I dream and
wait . . .
I examine myself with curiosity and amazement, asking
myself anxiously if by chance this is it. But I have formed
such an exalted opinion of it that I have come to the
conclusion that it does not exist, or else that it has come
already, and that it is nothing very wonderful after all But
what of all my visions? What of all my books and
poets ? . . . . Have they had the audacity to invent something
which does not exist, in order to disguise inherent nastiness ?
No; .... for how could personal preferences be explained
in that case ? . . . .
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254 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Navies, Friday, April 6th. — The king (Victor Em-
manuel) arrived yesterday, and this morning, at ten o'clock,
he called to see the Prince of Prussia. At the moment of
his arrival I was standing on the stairs, and when he came
opposite to me I said —
" May I crave a word from you, Sire ? "
" What do you wish ? "
"Absolutely nothing, Sire, but to have the power of
boasting all my life that I have spoken to the kindest and
best of kings."
" You are very good ; I thank you very much."
" That is really all, Sire."
" I thank you so much I do not know how to thank you
enough ; you are really very kind."
He pressed my left hand in both his, an event after which
I wear gloves for a week. It is owing to my gloves that I
am writing as you see. What beautiful nails I snail have in
a week ! What are you saying of me ? I was not much
frightened. In doing what I did, I foresaw everything but the
consequences to mysel£ To any one else this daring action
would have brougnt only delight; but to me it brought a
crowd of vexations. ... 1 am doomed to misfortune. Doenhoff
returned from the palace, where the prince went to return the
king's visit The king's aide-de-camp remarked, "What
strange behaviour of this young girl to put herself in the
king's wav ! " And the Prince of Prussia replied that voung
Russian ladies are very enthusiastic about the royal foinily,
that they do all kinds of foolish things for the Emperor, and
that thev are as pure as the angels of heaven Many thanks,
good pealar.
Doenhoff has said a heap of things, and, at last, has
come to reassure us.
After being violently agitated, and wild with terror, I
begin to feel myself again. Never in my life have I been so
frightened. In one hour I have lived through two years.
How lucky every one else must be not to have spoken to the
king!
We go out walking. Princess Maiguerite and Humbert
have arrived. Doenhoff is here, opposite our windows, with
some of the king's gentlemen (I have taken off my
gloves.)
When we got home from the races, we found a gentle-
man in the ante-room. I was going to inquire who it
was, when Rosalie rushed to me, and drawing me aside —
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NAPLE8, 1877. 255
" Come quickly, but do not be excited'
" What is it ? "
" It is the king's aide-de-camp, who has called three
times already ; he comes from the king to make an
The next moment I was before him ; and we were
all in the drawing-room. He spoke in Italian; and I was
astonished at the ease with wnich I conversed in that
language.
" Mademoiselle," he began, " I am sent by the king
for the purpose of expressing to you how much he regrets all
the vexation which you may have been made to feel yesterday.
His Majesty heard that you had been . . . scolded by your
mother, who may have thought that the king was annoyed.
Not at all ; the king is delighted, enchanted ; he spoke of it
all day long, and in the evening he called me and said — c Go
and tell that young lady that I thank her for her courteous
behaviour towards me ; tell her that her gracefulness and her
generous impulse have touched me, and that I offer my
thanks to her, and also to all her family. Far from being
angry, I am charmed ; tell her mamma so (ma mamma).
Say that I shall never forget it. The king saw that this
impulse came from your generous heart, and that was what
pleased him. The king knows that you had no object in
view, as you are strangers ; that is the very reason why he
is so touched. He never left off talking of it, and has
sent me to apologise for the annoyance you have had
through it"
Mamma made Count Doenhoff believe that I had been
locked up for twenty-four hours as a punishment for my
escapade, and the rumour soon spread — especially as I had
remained hidden behind the windows of the balcony while
Dina went out walking with mamma.
I had interrupted nim repeatedly, and at last I broke out
with a flood of joy and gratitude.
" It is truly too kind of the king to think of sending to
reassure me ; I was silly, and behaved as though I had been
in my own country, ana was meeting with my own Emperor,
to whom I have spoken." (It is a fact) "I should be
so distressed if the king had felt the slightest annoyance
at what I have done ; I was terribly afraid that I had
offended the king. Perhaps I shocked him by my abrupt-
ness . . ."
" The king is never alarmed when there is a bella ragazza
in question ; and I repeat to you again, in the name of the
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256 MARIE BASRKIRT8EFF.
king — they are his own words, without any addition of mine
— that, ' far from being annoyed, he was delighted, charmed,
and grateful/ You gave him a great pleasure. The king had
noticed you last year at Rome, and at the carnival in
Naples . . . and he was very much displeased with Count
Doenhoff, whose name he took note of, and who said some-
thing to prevent you from being present when the king took
his departure."
I must admit that Doenhoff, in his terror, had shut the
door ; a fact which I had not noticed, being far too excited to
even think of seeing the king again.
" I have spoken all the time in the name of the king, and
have repeated to you his own words."
" In that case, Monsieur, take him back mine. Tell the
king that I am charmed, and too highly honoured; that
his attention has touched me most keenly ; that I shall
never forget the kindness and exquisite delicacy of the
king; that I am too happy and honoured. Tell the king
that I conducted myself like a silly girl ; but as he is not so
very angry about it. . . ."
" Delighted, Mademoiselle."
This will be my fondest recollection. How can one
help adoring the royal family when they are so kind, so
affable ? I can well understand the affection which is
entertained towards the king, Prince Humbert, and Princess
Marguerite.
And, to end with, the gentleman begged mamma to give
him her card to take to the king.
After this, I no longer dread what people may say
about it — quite the contrary. Let's have a flourish of
trumpets !
Smce the king is not fiirious, I am in the seventh heaven.
It is going round the hotel that he kissed my hand.
Doenhoff has returned from the palace, where a dinner
has been given for one hundred and thirty people. The king
spoke of me, and more than once he repeated, " She is ex-
ceedingly prettv."
The king Being a good judge, his opinion exalts me
considerably in the eyes of Doenhoff' and all the others.
Tuesday, April 17th. — Every citizen must go through his
period of military service ; so must everybody feel the power
of love. I have served my eight days, and am free agam till
further notice. . . .
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FLORENCE, NIOE, 1877. 257
" Remittuntur ei peccata multa quare dilexit multum." —
Luke.
"Dulciores sunt lacrynne orantium quam gaudia thoa-
trorum." — Augustine.
Florence, Tuesday, May StL — Would you like to
know the truth ? Well, remember what I am going to
tell you — I love nobody, and shall never love, but one
person, who will gracefully pamper my self-love . . . my
vanity.
When you feel yourself beloved, you do everything for tlie
other one, and then there is no feeling of shame ; on the con-
trary, it makes you feel heroic.
I know very well that I would never ask anything for
myself; but for another I would do a hundred meannesses,
for it is by mean actions that one rises.
This again proves clearly that the finest actions
are done for self ... To ask for myself would be sublime,
because it would cost me : . . Oh! how horrid even to
think of it ! . . . But for another it is a pleasure, and it
looks like self-sacrifice, like devotion, like charity per-
sonified.
And on such occasions you believe in your own merit.
You really believe yourself to be charitable, devoted, and
sublime.
Friday, May llth. — Did I mention that Gardigiani had
been to see us, and had given me encouragement, had prom-
ised me an artistic future, had found many good points in
my sketches, and had expressed a great wish to paint my
portrait ?
Florence, Saturday, May 12th. — It wrings my heart to
leave Florence . . . We are going to Nice ! I look forward to
it as to crossing a desert : I should like to shave all my hair
off, so as not to have the trouble of dressing it.
We pack, we are ready to start ! The ink dries on my
pen before I make up my mind to write down a word, so
oppressed am I with regrets.
Nice, Wednesday, May 16tL — I have been running
about all the morning, looking for a few trifles which are
wanting to my ante-room ; but in this horrid country there's
nothing to be had. I have been to a stained-glass maker, to
s 2
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258 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
a tinman, and I don't know whom. The notion that my
journal will not be interesting, and the difficulty which 1
find in imparting any interest to it, while I am keeping
back some startling details, torments me. If I wrote only
at intervals, I might perhaps . . . but these notes of each
day will entertain only a thinking mind, some great observer
of human nature .... Those who have not the patience to
read all, will not read any, and, above all, will understand
nothing.
I feel happy in my soft and elegant nest, in my flowery
garden ; Nice is forgotten, and I feel as if I were alone in the
country.
Nice, Wednesday, May 23rd. — Oh ! when I think that
we live but once, and that each minute brings us nearer to
death, I feel as if I must go mad ! I do not tear death, but
life is so short that it is infamous to waste it !
Thursday, May 2Uh. — Two eyes are insufficient, or else
I must remain idle. Reading and drawing tire me very
much, and at night, when writing these sorry lines, I feel
sleepy.
An, how delightful is youth !
With what pleasure 1 shall look back upon these days
devoted to study and to art ! If I were only to pursue this
course for the entire year ! But of what avail is a day, a
week taken at random ? . . . Natures so richly endowed by
God prey upon themselves in idleness.
I try to calm myself by thinking that I will certainly
settle down to work this winter ; but my seventeen years
make me blush to the roots of my hair. Nearly seventeen
years, and what have I done ? Nothing . . . This is what
overwhelms me.
I look out among the celebrities for those who have
commenced late in fife, in order to console myself: yes,
but seventeen years is nothing for a man, whereas a
woman of that age would be twenty-three if she were a
maa
To go and live in Paris ... in the North, after this
glorious sun, these pure and delicious nights. What is left
to desire or to love after Italy ? . . . Paris is, no doubt, the
centre of the civilised world, of intelligence, of wit, of fashion,
and we go there and stay and find pleasure in it ; in fact,
it is the place to go to for ... a multitude of things, and
also in order to return with enhanced delight to the country
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NICE, 1877. 259
of God and of the elect — the enchanted, marvellous divine
country, all descriptions of which will fail to convey its sur-
passing beauty ana mysterious charm.
On reaching Italy we may make fun of its hovels and its
litzzaroni, and we may show much wit, and even insight in
doing so. But forget for an instant that you are witty, and
that it is very amusing to jeer at everyttiing, and you, like
me, will be m an ecstasy, alternately weepmg ana laugh-
ing with admiration . . .
I was going to say that the moonlight is enchanting,
and that in mat mighty Paris I shall no longer enjoy
this calm, this poetry, these divine delights of Nature and
of heaven.
Tuesday, May 29th. — The more I approach the old age of
my youth the more indifferent I become. Few things dis-
turb me now, whereas everything used to do so formerly ; so
that in reading the account of my past life over again, I
attribute too much importance to trifles through seeing how
they made my blood boil. Confidence, trustfulness, and that
sensitiveness which is, as it were, the down of a character,
have been very quickly lost.
I the more regret losing that freshness of feeling, because
it never comes back. One is more calm, but one's enjoyment
is not so keen. I ought not to have known so early what
deception meant ; ana had that knowledge been withheld,
I feel that I should have become a sort of supernatural
being.
I have just devoured a book which has disgusted me
with love. A charming princess in love with a painter !
Fie!
I say this, not to insult painters by a poor attempt at wit,
but ... I don't know ; it jars. My ideas have always been
aristocratic, and I believe in races of men as in races of
animals. Noble races often, and at the beginning always
became so only through education, moral and physical, trans-
mitting its effects from father to son. Why trouble about the
cause ?
Wednesday, May 30th. — I have been turning over the
leaves of the A period. The course of reasoning which I
pursued is truly astonishing. I marvel and wonder, for I had
forgotten all tnose true and accurate arguments, and my
anxiety was considerable lest people should think that I had
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260 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
been in love (in the past) with Count A . Thank God
that, owing to this precious journal, no one will be able to
think so.
Really I did not think I had said so many truths, or that I
could have thought them. It is a year ago, and I was really
afraid that I had written nonsense ; but I didn't, and am so
pleased. The only thing I don't understand is how I could
act so foolishly and reason so well.
I must tell myself again and again that no advice in the
world would have prevented a single step, and that experience
was what I wanted.
I am rather displeased at being so wise ; but it must be
so ; and when I become accustomed to it, I shall regard it as a
very simple matter, and will again raise myself into that ideal
purity which is always somewhere in the soul. Then, which
is stul better, I shall be calmer, prouder, happier, because I
shall be able to appreciate it ; whereas at present I am vexed,
as if for another person.
Indeed, the woman who is writing, and her whom I
describe, are really two persona What are all her troubles
to me? I tabulate, analyse, and copy the daily life of my
ferson; but to me, to myself, all that is very indifferent
t is my pride, my self-love, my interests, my envelope, my
eyes, which suffer, or weep, or rejoice ; but /, myself, am
tnere only to watch, to write, to relate, and to reason calmly
about these great miseries, just as Gulliver must have looked
at the Lilliputians.
I have still plenty to say, in order to explain ; but let
this suffice.
Monday, June llth. — Yesterday evening, while they were
playing at cards, I made a sort of sketch bv the light of two
candles which flickered very much in the wind, and this
morning I have made a first araft of our players on canvas.
I am all eagerness to paint four persons seated ; of
showing the positions of the hands, the aims, and the
expressions. Hitherto I have only painted single heads,
large and small ; I contented myself with sowing them, like
flowers, on the canvas.
Paris, Saturday, July 7th. — I think I can fairly say that I
have become more reasonable, though very recently, and I see
things in a tolerably clear light; ar.d have got over many
illusions and many vexations.
We only learn true wisdom by personal experience.
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PARIS, 1877. 261
Sunday, July 15tL — I am bored to death; so much so
indeed that I think there is nothing in the world which can
amuse or interest me. I wish for nothing ! I want nothing !
Ay, I should very much like not to be ashamed of sinking
into stupidity. In short, to be able to live without doing
anything, or thinking of anything, like a plant, without
any remorse of conscience.
Captain B has spent the evening with us, and we
talked together ; but I am fairly out of conceit with my
conversational efforts since I have read what Mme. de Stael
says about foreigners imitating the brilliancy of the French.
According to her, one must hide in one's hole, and never dare
to come in contact with the sublime genius of the French.
Reading, drawing, music, and ennui, ennui, ennui/
Some living thing is necessary besides occupation and
relaxation ; and I am bored.
I am not bored because I am a marriageable young lady.
No; you have too good an opinion of me to believe that. But
I am bored because my life is cross-grained, and because I am
bored!
Paris is killing me ! It is a cafe, a well-managed hotel,
a bazaar. Well, I can only hope that in the winter, what
with the opera, the Bois, and my studies, I shall get used
to it.
Tuesday, July 17th. — I have spent the day in seeing real
marvels of old and artistic embroideries and costumes, which
are in themselves genuine poems of chivalrous or pastoral life
— all sorts of splendid things which have given me a glimpse
of a luxury I scarcely suspected ; and this luxury not in the
demi-monde, but in good society. Ah, Italy ! . . . If I give
up a month twice a year to my clothes, it is only that I
may not have to trouble myself about them afterwards.
How stupid it is to devote one's chief attention to dress
In my case, dresses lead me to costumes, and costumes to
history.
Wednesday, July ISth. — Italy! This word is enough to
make me tremble as no other name or person ever did.
Oh ! when shall I go there ?
I should be so vexed if it were thought that I write Oh !
and Ah! through affectation. I don't know why I should
think that I am not believed, but I feel so ; and therefore I
make too many protestations, which itn't pleasant, besides
being stupid
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262 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
You see, I want to alter my style, and write quite simply,
and am afraid that upon comparison with my past extrava-
gances no one will understand what I want to say.
Listen! Since I left Naples — that is to say, since my
Russian journey— I have already tried to correct myself, and
I think tnat I have somewhat improved.
I want to relate things quite naturally ; and if I add some
figures of speech, do not think that it is for the sake of
ornament Oh no ; it is simply to express, as perfectly as
possible, the confusion of my iaeas.
I am quite exasperated at not being able to write what
will make others weep. I should so much like to make others
feel what I feel ! I weep, and I say that / weep. This is not
what I want to do ; I want to tell it all ... m short, uiove
others to tears.
This will come, but not of itself; however, it's useless to
seek for it
lhur8day y Jidy 26th. — I have been drawing the whole day
long ; playing the mandoline to rest my eyes ; and then again
drawing, and then playing the piano. There's nothing in the
world like art, in whatever stage — at its commencement, as
well as at its highest development
Everything is forgotten m thinking of what we produce :
we look at these outlines and shadows with respect and ten-
derness ; we create, and feel ourselves almost great
I am afraid of injuring my sight, and have not read in
the evening for three days ; just lately I have begun to see
everything confusedly at the distance of the pavement from
the carriage, which is certainly not very far.
This disturbs me. If, after losing my voice, I am to be
compelled to give up drawing and reading, in that case I shall
not complain ; for that would be as much as to say that no
one was to blame for all my other vexations, and that such is
the will of God.
Monday, Jidy 30th. — It is said that many young girl*
write down their impressions ; and that stupid Vie
Parisienixe says it in a tolerably contemptuous manner. I
sincerely hope that 1 am not a neutral, envious, ignorant
creature of this kind, inhaling mystery and depravity at every
pore.
Fauvel is stopping my travels at Enghien, and is perhaps
going to send me to Germany, which will again set every-
thing topsy-turvy. Walitzky is a clever man, and under-
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PARIS, 1877. 263
stands every kind of ailment ; I had hoped that he was making
a mistake in recommending Soden, but now Fauvel agrees with
him.
Wednesday, August 1st — "Two feelings are common to
proud and affectionate natures — extreme susceptibility to the
opinion of others, and extreme grief when tnat opinion is
unjust"
What adorable creature has written that ? I do not
remember ; but I have already quoted that line just a year
ago, and I beg you to remember it sometimes when thinking
of me.
Sunday, August 5th. — When in want of bread, one
certainly dares not speak of sweetmeats. Thus, at the
present moment, I am ashamed to speak of my artistic
nopes ; I no longer dare to say that, in order to work
better, I want such and such arrangements — that I want
to be in Italy to study. It is very trying to me to say
all this.
Even if all my desires were granted, I don't think that
I could any longer be satisfied, as I would have been
formerly.
Nothing restores lost confidence ; and this, like everything
irrevocable, makes me thoroughly wretched.
I am disappointed and melancholy; I take no notice
of anything or anybody. My face is careworn ; and this
disfigures me by taking away that confiding look which I
used to have. 1 can no longer talk ; my friends first look at
me with astonishment, and then take their departure ; then I
try to be amusing, and end by being extraordinarily extra-
vagant, impertinent, and stupid.
Monday, August 6th. — You think that I am not distressed
on account of Russia I Who is so wretched or so contempt-
ible as to forget his country when it is in danger ? ... Do
you think that this fable of the race between the nare and the
tortoise, applied to Russia and Turkey, does not pain me ?
Because I talk of pigeons and American ladies, am I there-
fore not distressed — seriously distressed — on account of our
war?
Do you think that the himdred thousand slaughtered
Russians would have lost their lives if my vows could have
saved, my anxieties could have defended, them ?
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264 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Tuesday, August 7th. — I have been to stupefy myself at
the Bon March6, which pleases me, as everything which is
well arranged does. We have had a supper party, and a
merry one. I, too, have laughed ; but . . . what matter ! . . .
I am desperately sad.
It is impossible ! ! Oh ! terrible, despairing, horrible, and
frightful word !! ! To die! My God, to die!!! To die!!!!
Without leaving anything behind me ? To die like a dog !
just as a hundred thousand women have died, whose names
are barely inscribed on their tombstones. To die like . . .
Fool, fool, that I am, not to see what God wills! God
wills that I should renounce everything, and give myself up
entirely to art In five years I shall still be quite young
— perhaps beautiful, after my style of beauty. . . . But
if I should become only an artistic mediocrity, as so many
are!
As far as the world goes it would be all very well ; but
to give up one's life to it, and not succeed. . . .
At Paris, as everywhere else, there is a Russian colony.
It is not these paltry considerations that provoke me ; but
because, paltry as they are, they fill me with despair, and
prevent me from thinking of my greatness.
What is life without congenial society ? What can one do
left entirely to oneself ? This it is that makes me detest the
whole world, my family — even to myself — and makes me utter
blasphemies. To live, to live ! . . . . Holy Mary, Mother
of God, Lord Jesus Christ, my God, come and help
me!
But to devote oneself to art, one should go to Italy.
Yes, to Rome. Oh! this granite wall against which I am
dashing my forehead every instant ! . . .
I will stay where I am.
Sunday, August 12th. — I have sketched the poitrait of
Antoinette, the chambermaid of the establishment, She has
a chaiming face and blue eyes, large and brilliant, and of
exquisite naivete and sweetness. That's where it is ; the
sketch is always successful, but it is impossible to finish
without having studied.
Friday, August Vlth. — I am certain that I cannot live
away from Rome. In fact, I am simply perishirg — or, at all
events, I have no wish for anything. I would ghe Uo years
of my life to have not yet been in Rome.
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PARIS, 1877. 265
Unfortunately, we only learn how to do things when
there is no longer anything to be done.
Painting maddens me, because there is the material for
marvellous productions in me, and yet, as regards studies,
I am worse off than the first little street-girl who shows
traces of talent and is sent to schooL However, I hope that
posterity, in its rage at having lost what I might have
created, will at all events behead all my family.
You think that I am still anxious to go into society !
No, I am so no longer. I am soured and disgusted ; and I am
turning artist, just as malcontents become republicans.
I think I am slandering myself
Saturday, August 18th. — When I was reading Homer I
used to compare niv aunt in her anger to Hecuba at the
burning of Troy. Dull as one may oe, and ashamed to
acknowledge one's admiration for the classics, nevertheless
it seems to me that no one can escape that adoration of
the ancients. We may well be unwilling to go on always
saying the same thing; we may well be afraid of seeming
to transcribe what we have read in professional admirers,
or of repeating our professor's words— especially at Paris
we don't dare to speak of these things, we really don't dare.
And yet there is no modern drama, no novel, no
sensational comedy, even by Dumas or George Sand, of which
I have so vivid a recollection, or which has made such a deep
and natural impression upon me, as the description of the
capture of Troy.
I seem to have assisted at those horrors, to have heard
those cries and seen the fire, to have been with Priam's family,
and with those miserable creatures who were hiding behind
the altars of their gods, where the sinister gleams of the fire
which was devouring their city would soon find them out and
deliver them up. . . .
And who can help teeling a slight shudder when reading
about the appearance of Creusa's ghost ?
But when I think of Hector, who after coming to the foot
of the ramparts with such excellent intentions, flies before
Achilles, and runs thrice round the town pursued by his
enemy .... I laugh. . . .
And as for the hero who, having passed a thong in or
about his dead enemy's feet, drags Trim three times round
these same ramparts, he makes me think of an odious urchin
riding a-cock-horse on a stick with a huge wooden sabre by
his side. . . .
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266 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
I don't know .... but it seems to nie that I shall
not be able to satisfy iny world-wide day-dreams except at
Rome. ...
There you feel, as it were, at the top of the civilised
world.
I have thrown aside the Journal d'un Diplomate en
Italie; this French elegance, this extreme civility, this
commonplace admiration, make me angry where Rome is
concerned.
A Frenchman always seems to me to be dissecting things
with a long instrument held delicately between his fingers
and a magnifying glass in his eye.
Rome should be, as a city, what I imagined myself to be
as a woman ; every word used previously and for others is a
profanation when applied to .... it*.
Sunday, August 19th. — I have just finished reading
Ariadne by Ouida. This book has saddened me, and yet
I almost envy the fate of Gioja.
Gioja has been brought up on Homer and Virgil ; after her
father's death she comes on foot to Rome. There a terrible
disillusion awaits her. She expected to find the Rome of
Augustus.
For two years she studies in the studio of Marix, the most
celebrated sculptor of the period, who, unknown to himself,
falls in love witn her. She, however, lives for art alone, until
the appearance of Hilarion, a poet who makes the whole world
shed tears over his poems, and who ridicules everything ; he
is a millionaire, beautiful as a god, and adored everywhere.
While Marix worships her in secret, Hilarion gains her love
from sheer caprice.
The end of the novel was saddening, and yet I would
accept Gioja's fate without a moment's hesitation. To begin
with, she adored Rome ; and, further, she loved with her whole
soul. And if she was abandoned, it was by him; if she
suffered, it was through him. And I do not see how one can
be made wretched by anything that comes from him one
loves .... as she loved, and as I shall be able to love, if I
ever do love. . . .
She never knew that he had only taken her out of
caprice.
" He loved me," she said, " it is I who have failed to retain
him."
She had fame ; her name was repeated with wonder and
awe.
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PARIS, 1877. 267
She never ceased to love him ; as far as she is concerned,
he has never descended to the level of other men ; she always
believed him perfect, almost immortal. She would not die
then, "because he was still living." "How can one kill
oneself when he whom one loves is not dying ? " she asked.
And she died in his arms, and while hearing him say, " 1
love you ! "
But to love like this one must find Hilarion. The man
you will love in this way must not be of obscure parentage.
Hilarion was the son of an Austrian noble and a Greek
princess. The man that you love in this way ought never
to want money, ought to succeed in everything, and fear
nothing in the whole world.
When Gioja used to kneel down and kiss his feet, I love to
think that his nails were pink, and that he didn't suffer from
corns.
There's the nib ; terrible reality ! Lastly, this man must
never meet with any obstacles at the entrance to a palace, or
to a court circle ; nor have anything to prevent him from
purchasing a piece of sculpture if he wants it, or be vexed at
not being able to do anything whatsoever, even the silliest
thing. He must bo above the slights, difficulties, and
vexations of other people. He may be cowardly in love
only — but cowardly after Hilarion's fashion, who smiled as
he Droke a woman's heart, and wept when he saw that she
stood in need of something.
And, besides, it is very easy to understand. How
doex one break heart* ? Either by not loving at all, or
loving no longer. But is it voluntary ? Has one any
power in the matter ? No ! Well, then, there is no ground
ior any of those reproaches which are so absurd and yet so
commonly made. We blame without taking the trouble to
understand.
Such a man, when travelling, should always find a palace
to rest in when he wishes to stop ; a yacht to convey him
wherever his caprice takes him ; jewels to adorn a woman ;
servants, horses, even flute-players, que diable !
But this is a romance ! Just so ; but then this love is also
an invention. You will tell me that men get loved who earn
£50 a year, or whose income Is £1,000, who have to be
economical about gloves, and to count the number of invita-
tions they can afford to send ; but that isn't the same thing at
all, not at all !
Or again ; we begin to feel an inclination, we love, we
despair, we kill ourselves with charcoal, or our rival, or the
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268 MARIE BASHKTRTSEFF.
traitor himself ; or we become resigned to it aiL But that's
not it at all — not at all ! ' Oh ! not by any means !
Susceptible as I am, the slightest thing vexes me.
" Manx and Crispin had sworn to kill him, but she
could not understand the wish for revenge.
" ' Revenge for what ? ' she said ; ' there's nothing to be
revenged for. I have been happy ; he has loved me/
" And when Marix threw himself at her feet, and swore to
be her Mend and avenger, she turned away from him with
horror and disgust.
" ' To be my friend ! ' she said, ' and yet wish to injure
him!'"
I can quite understand that one may hate, even to the
death, a man one has loved, but not him one loves.
I shall never love like float, if 1 find only what I
have already seea I should be too much disgraced through
hvm.
Just think of it ! to live on the second floor . with his
relatives; and I bet (according to what we heard from
Visconti) that his mother only gives him clean sheets twice
a month.
But let me rather refer you to Balzac for these microscopic
analyses, for my weak attempts and wretched efforts fail to
convey what I mean.
Thursday, August 23rd. — I am at Schlangenbad. How
did I get here, and why ? This is the reason — it is because I
am vexed, though I don't know why, at being separated from
the rest; and since we must suffer, it is better to suffer
together.
They live in a sort of boarding-house at Schlangenbad ;
but as 1 have more than enough of the baroness's boarding-
house, I state that I prefer rooms at the Badehaus, which is
the best thing to be got here.
My aunt and I take two rooms at the Badehaus for my
baths, which is a convenient arrangement
Fauvel has prescribed rest Well, I get it here. Still, I
do not think that I am cured yet, and in unpleasant things I
am never mistaken.
I shall soon be eighteen years old. It is little to persons
of thirty-five, but it is a good deal to me, who in a few
months of life as a young lady have had but little pleasure
and plenty of annoyances.
Art ! If I had not these three magic letters in the distance,
I should be dead.
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80HLANQENBAD, 1877. 269
But for Art one needs nobody; we depend solely on ourselves.
And if we succumb, it shows that we are of no account, and
should not live any longer. Art ! I picture it to myself as a
great light yonder, very far off; and, forgetting everything
else, I will walk with my eyes fixed on that light ....
Now, O God, do not terrify me ! something horrible tells
me that . . . Ah ! no ; 1 will not write it down. I do
not want to distress myself! ... an effort must be made;
and if . . . There will be nothing to tell . . . and . . . God's
will be done !
I was at Schlangenbad two years ago. What a difference
there is ! Then I had every hope ; now I have none. Uncle
fitienne is with us now, as he was then, and his parrot too —
exactly the same as two years ago. The same journey along
the Rhine, the same vines, the same ruins, castles, and old
towers with legends to them ....
And here, at Schlangenbad, there are charming balconies,
like nests of verdure ; but neither the ruins nor the pretty
little modern houses delight me. I recognise merit cnarm,
and beauty, wherever it is to be found ; but I can love nothing
save the South.
And what in the world can be compared with it ? I don't
know how to express it, but poets have asserted it, and
scholars have proved it, before my time.
Thanks to the habit of carrying " a heap of useless things "
with me, I can make myself rairly at home anywhere in an
hour's time with my travelling-case, writing paper, and mando-
line, a few good big books, my foot-bag, and my portraits. That
is all. But with these things any inn chamoer can be made
comfortable. What I like most are my four big red diction-
aries, my large green Livy, a tiny bante, a middle-sized
Lamartine, ana my portrait, cabinet size, painted in oils, and
framed in dark-blue velvet in a Russia leather case. With
these my bureau looks elegant directly, and the two candles,
casting their light on these warm tints so pleasant to the eye,
almost reconcile me to Germany.
Dina is so good ... so charming ! I should so much like
to see her happily settled ! . . .
There's an expression ! what a wretched farce the life of
some persons is !
Monday, August 27th.— I have added a clause to my
evening prayer ; live words, " Protect our armies, God ! "
I might well say that I am anxious ; but where such vast
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270 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
interests are at stake, what am 1 that I should have any-
thing to say in the matter? I hate idle compassion. I
would only speak about our war if I could be of some service.
I content myself by adhering under any circumstances to my
admiration of our Imperial family, our Grand Dukes, and our
poor dear Emperor.
Things are said to go badly with us. I should like
to see the Prussians In this parched savage coimtry filled
with traitors and pitfalls ! The march of those excellent
Prussians lay through rich fertile France, where at
every step they found towns and fields, where they had plenty
to eat, to drink, and to "steal. I should like to see them in
the Balkans !
We must also take into account that we really fight,
whereas they have in general purchased men and then
butchered them.
Our gallant soldiers die like trained beasts, say prejudiced
people — like heroes, say those who are just
But all the world agrees in saying that there never yet
was seen any fighting like that of the Russians at present.
History will telL
Wednesday, August 29th. — Having been vexed for a con-
siderable time with the point — to me an obscure one — respect-
ing the transition of Italy from Empire to Kingdom, and on
to its final dismemberment, I took one of Ain&d£e Thierry's
books, and went with it into the wood, where I read,
searched out, and learnt what 1 wished to know, wandering
about the while, not knowing what direction I was taking,
and vainly imagining encounters like that which I described
last year.
The Russians go from bad to worse. We were reading
the news of the war; the Shipka Pass is still in the hands
of the Russians; to-morrow we shall know the result of
the decisive action. 1 therefore made a vow not to say
a word until to-morrow, in order that our side may be
victorious.
I am eighteen years of age ; it is absurd ! My unused
talents, my hopes, my whims, and my caprices, are becoming
ridiculous at eighteen. Fancy beginning to learn painting at
eighteen, when one has claimed to do everything earlier and
even better than others !
There are some who deceive others, but 1 have deceived
myself.
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SCHLANGENBAD, 1877. 271
Thursday, August 30th. — I did not speak, and this even-
ing at Wiesbaden we heard that the Russians hold Shipka,
that the Turks are beaten (at least, for the present), and
that we have received great reinforcements.
Saturday, September 1st. — I am very much alone, think-
ing and reading without any one to direct me. It is perhaps
good for me, and perhaps not.
Who will guarantee that I am not crammed with sophisms
and erroneous notions? This must be decided after my
death.
Forgiveness, forgive ! There's a substantive and a verb,
much used in this world. Christianity bids us forgive.
What is forgiveness ?
It is a renouncing of vengeance or punishment But
when we neither intended to take vengeance, nor to punish,
can we forgive ? Yes, and No.
Yes, because we say it to ourselves and to others, and we
act as if the offence had never existed.
No, because we are not masters of our memories ; and so
long as we remember, we have not forgiven.
1 have spent the whole day in the house opposite with
my family, where I mended with my own lingers a Russia
leather slipper for Dina ; then I washed a large wooden table,
like any housemaid, and set to work on it at making
Var^niki (pastry made with flour, water, and new cheese).
My people were amused to see me kneading moistened
flour, with my sleeves tucked up, and a black velvet cap on
my head " like Faust."
And then I put on a Robespierre coat of the colour of
white india-rubber, and went with Dina to astonish the Tyro-
lese woman who sells a heap of odds and ends by asking her
for the caput niortuum of M . She did not under-
stand, so after purchasing a bear from her we took our
departure.
Sunday, Septemfwr 2nd. — How can people who are free
and unconstrained go and spend a day at Wiesbaden ?
We are going there, however, to see the most ridicu-
lous people m the world celebrate the defeat of the most
elegant.
I was sleepy, and took black coffee at intervals.
Thursday, September 6th. — To remain at Paris. That is
what I, and my mother too, have definitely fixed. I have
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272 MARIE BA8HKIRT8EFF.
spent the whole day with her. We did not quarrel with one
another, and everything would have gone nicely if she had
not been ill, especially in the evening. She has hardly left
her bed since yesterday.
/ have decided to remain at Paris, where I will study,
and from tliere I will go in the summer for recreation to
the watering-places. All my fancies are over; Russia has
failed me, and I have been thoroughly chastised. And I
feel that the moment has at lust come for r me to stop.
With my capabilities, I can make up for lost time in two
years.
So be it, then, in the name of the Father, of the Son, and
of the Holy Ghost, and may diinne protection be with me I
This is no passing decision, like so many others, bat a final
one.
Sunday, September 9th. — I cried to-day. The beginning
of my spoiled life is painful to me. God forbid that 1 should
try and pass for a misunderstood divinity ; but I am unhappy !
Many a time have I wished to believe that I was " condemned
by fate," and each time 1 have rebelled against that horrible
thought. . . .
Nunquam anathematis vinexdis eauenda !
There are people who succeed in everything, while with
others everything goes wrong. And against this truth there
is nothing to be said ; that is just the dreadful part of it
For the last three years I could have worked seriously ;
but at thirteen I was running after the shadow of the Luke
of H . A sad thing to acknowledge. I don't blame
myself, because 1 did not consciously waste my time ; I regret
it, but I do not reproach myself altogether. Circumstances,
combined with my own free-will, continually hampered though
it was by my ignorance ; my enthusiasm, whicn I mistook
for the scepticism acquired by a forty years' experience ; by
all these I was tossed hither and thither, Heaven Knows how.
Others, in similar circumstances, might have found sub-
stantial help, which would have allowed them to work in Rome
or elsewhere ; or would have made a good marriage. But
or me, nothing came of it
I do not regret having lived in my own way ; it would be
strange if I dia, knowing as I do that advice is of no use to
me. I believe only in wnat I feel.
Monday, Septen\ber 10th. — We leave to-morrow morning.
I like Schlangenbad. The trees are splendid, and the air
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PARIS, 1877. 273
is balmy. You can be alone if' you like. I know all the
Eaths, and all the alleys. You might be happy if you could
b satisfied with Schlangenbad.
My mothers do not understand me. In my desire to go to
Rome, they see only walks on the Pincio, the opera, and
" painting lessons " ; and if I were to spend my whole life
in explaining my enthusiasm to them, they would perhaps
understand it ; but as a useless thing, as one of my fancies . . .
the petty troubles of everyday life have absorbed them . . .
and then people say that the love of those things must be
inborn, otherwise one can never understand, however intel-
lectual, cultured, and excellent one may otherwise be. But
is it not rather I who am silly ?
I should like to be a fatalist
Paris, Wednesday, September 19th. — I have been reading
about my affair with A , and I am very much afraid
people might take me for an idiot, or for a person of rather
light behaviour. Light ? No ! I come from an honourable
family . . . What am I saying ?
I was only silly. Do not think I am calling myself
silly out of playfulness or coquetry ; I say it with the
deepest sadness, for I am convinced of my folly.
And was it I who wished to conquer the world ? .... At
seventeen I am tired of everything — Heaven knows what
I am. I only know that I am silly, and A is the proof
of it
And yet, when I speak, I am witty — never at the right
moment, it is true ; but yet . . .
Thursday, September 20th — Friday, 21st. — I am pro-
foundly disgusted with myself. T hate everything I have done,
written, ana said. I detest myself, because I nave fulfilled
none of my hopes. I have deceived myself ; I am stupid ; I
have no tact — and have never had any. Show me one
really clever thing I have said — one wise thing I have done.
Nothing but folly! I thought I was witty; I am
absurd. I thought myself brave ; and I am timid. I thought
I had talent ; and I don't know what 1 have done with it
And, with all that, the pretension of being able to write
charmingly. Ah ! my Emperor ! you may possibly take all I
have been saying for wit ; it looks lite it, but it isn't.
I am clever enough to judge myself truly, which makes
me seem modest, and I know not what besides. I hate
myself
T 2
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274 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Saturday, September 22nd. — I don't know how it is, but
I think I should like to stay in Paris. I believe a year in
Julian's studio would be good as a beginning.
Tuesday, October 2nd. — To-day we move to 71, Avenue des
Champs-Elysees. In spite of all the bustle, I have found time
to go to Julian's studio — the only good one for women. They
work there every day from eight till twelve, and from one till
live. A man was posing nuae when M. Julian took me into
the studio.
Wednesday, October 3rd, — Wednesday being a lucky
day for me, and to-day not being a 4th, which is
unlucky for me, I did my best to begin as many things as
possible.
I sketched a three-quarter view of a head in charcoal at
Julian's in ten minutes, and he told me that he had not
expected anything so good from a beginner. I left early,
as I only wanted to make a start to-day. We went to the
Bois ; I gathered live oak-leaves and went to Doucet, who
made me a delicious little blue chaplet in half an hour. But
what do I really want ? . . . . To be a millionaire ? To re-
cover my voice ? To get the Prix de Rome under a man's
name ? To marry Napoleon IV. ? To get into the best
society ?
/ want my voice to come back at once.
Thursday, October Uh. — The day passes quickly when you
are drawing from eight till twelve, and from one till live.
Going backwards and forwards takes up nearly an hour and a
half, and then I was a little late, so that I had only six hours'
work.
When I think of the years and years I have lost, I feel
tempted in my anger to wish it all at the devil. . . . But
that would be worse still. Come, miserable wretch, be glad to
have begun at last ! And to think I might have done so at
thirteen ! Four years !
I should have painted historical pictures by now if I had
begun four years ago. All that I have learned only hinders
me. I must begin over again.
I have been obliged to begin the front view of the head
twice over before it turned out to my satisfaction. As for the
study from the nude, it came of itself, and M. Julian did not
correct a single line. He was not there when I arrived ; it was
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PARIS, 1877. 275
a pupil who told me how to begin ; I had never seen a study
from the nude before.
All I have done till now has been but a sorry jest !
At last I am working with artists, real artists, who have
exhibited at the Salon, and who sell their pictures and por-
traits — who even give lessons.
Julian is pleased with the way I have begun. " By the
end of the winter you will be able to paint some very good
portraits;" he said to me.
He says that sometimes his female students are as
clever as the young men. I should have worked with the
latter, but they smoke — and, besides, there is no advantage.
There was when the women had only the draped model;
but since they make studies from the nude, it is just the
same.
The maid at the studio is like those they describe in
novels.
" I have always been with artists," she says, " and I am no
longer b&urgeoise — I am an artist"
I am, oh ! so happy !
Friday, October 5th. — " You have done this by yourself ? "
asked M. Julian, as he entered the studio.
" Yes, Monsieur."
I was as red as if I had been telling a lie.
" Well, I am very, very pleased ! "
" Really ? "
" Very pleased ! "
And wasn't I ? Then followed a piece of advice. ... I
am still dazzled by the superiority of the others over me, but
I am already less afraid. They are women who have been
working three and four years at studios and at the Louvre,
and have worked seriously.
Saturday, October 6th.— I have seen no one, as I have been
at the studio.
" Don't be afraid," said Julian ; " you will get on fast
enough."
And when mamma called for me at five o'clock in the
evening, he said something of this sort —
" I thought it was the whim of a spoilt child ; but I
must acknowledge that she really works, that she has
determination, and is gifted. If she goes on in the Fame
way, in three months her drawings may get into the
Salon.'
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276 MARIS BA8HKIRTSEFF.
Every time he corrects my drawing he asks with some
distrust if I did it alone.
I should think so indeed. I have never asked for advice
of any of the pupils, except how to commence the study
of the nude.
I am getting rather used to their ways — their artistic
ways.
In the studio all distinctions disappear ; you have neither
name nor family; you are no longer the daughter of your
mother; you are yourself; you are an indiviaual with art
before you — art and nothing else. One feels so happy, so
free, so proud !
At last I am what I wished to be for so long. I wanted
it so long that I cannot auite realise it
By-the-bye, do you Know whom I met at the Champs-
filys^es?
Why, the Duke of H , alone in a cab. The handsome,
rather stout, young man, with copper-coloured auburn hair
and a small moustache, has developed into a rubicund
Englishman, with small carroty whiskers reaching from the
ear to the middle of the cheek.
Four years, however, change a man. Half an hour
afterwards I thought no more about him. Hie transit gloria
duels /
How awfully excited I was !
Monday, October 8th. — A new model for the heads — that is
to say, in the morning (a sort of music-hall singer who sang
during the rests) — and in the afternoon a young girl for the
nude.
They say she is only seventeen ; but I can assure you her
figure has been rather spoilt They say these creatures lead a
dreadful life.
The pose being difficult I find it hard. What makes men
ashamed of being naked is thai they are afraid of their
defects. If one felt sure of not having a spot on the skin, or a
muscle ill made, or a deformed foot, one would go about
without clothes, and one would not be ashamed. People
don't realise the truth of this, but it is this and nothmg
else which makes people ashamed. Who can resist the temp-
tation of showing something that is really beautiful, and of
which one may be proud. W r ho, from King Candaules on-
wards, has ever kept for himself any treasure or any beauty
without boasting of it? But as easily as one is satisfied
with one's face, so fastidious is one instinctively for the body.
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PARIS, 1877. 277
The sense of shame only disappears before perfection —
beauty being all-powerfuL And wnen you say anything else
but "How beautiful ! " it is that the thing isn't really beautiful,
and there is room for blame and for any kind of opinion.
That wretch of a model had straight and pretty if somewhat
fat fingers, and a rather shapeless though regular and not
over-big foot.
I said just now that perfect beauty keeps all other ideas
away, and it is the same with anything else which is perfect.
The music which lets vou notice the defects in the stage
appointments is itself faulty. An act of heroism which at
the time allows of any other feeling but admiration, is not
as heroic as you could have imagined.
The thing you see or hear may be great enough in itself
to fill your soul, and then alone is it all-powerful
If, on seeing a woman naked, you feel that it is wrong,
this woman is not the highest expression of beauty, since
there is room in your mind for an idea other than that which
should pass to your brain through your eyes. You forget the
beautiful, to think of the nude. The beauty, therefore, was
not perfect enough to occupy all your thoughts. And then
those who display themselves are ashamed, and the onlookers
are shocked.
One is ashamed because one knows that others disapprove ;
but if they did not disapprove, it would be the right thmg, and
so one would not be asnamed. To sum up, perfection and
absolute beauty annul blame — or, rather, prevent its occur-
rence — and suppress shame.
Tuesday, October 9th. — I have drawn my singer from quite
near and foreshortened. I have the worst place in the studio
this week, having come late on Monday.
" It really isn t bad," Julian said. " I may say I am even
surprised at your doing it so well It's the most difficult pose
of all, and how could you do it from so near ? Come, I see that
you will get on famously."
This is our way of living: — My people drive out and
go to the theatre, while I mean to draw till the Naples
carnival if I don't change my mind, and if nothing new
happens.
Wednesday, October lOtL — Don't suppose I am doing
wonders because M. Julian is surprised. He is surprised
because he expected to find the whims of a rich young girl
and a beginner. I need experience, but my work is
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278 MARIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
correct and like the model As for the execution, it is just
what may be expected after a week's work.
All my fellow-students draw better than I do, but none of
them can get it as like and true in proportion. What makes
me think I shall do better than they, is that, although I see
their merit, I should never be content to draw no better than
they, whereas generally the beginners are continually saying,
" Oh ! if only I could draw as well as such or such a
one ! "
These women of forty have practice, work, and experience ;
but they will never do more than they are doing at present.
As for the young ones, they draw well, and have time before
them, but no future.
Perhaps I shall never do anything, but it will be
from impatience. I could kill myselt for not having
begun four years ago, and it seems to me that it is too
late.
We shall see.
Thursday, October 11th. — It's all very well to say it's
useless to regret the past, but every minute 1 say to myself,
" How good it would be if I had begun working three
years ago. By this time I should be a great artist, and I
might," &c. &c.
M. Julian told the studio servant that Schaeppi and I
were the most promising ones.
You don't know who Schaeppi is. She is the Swiss girl.
Goodness, what a dialect ! And M. Julian added that I might
become a great artist.
I know it from Rosalia
It is so cold that I caught cold ; but I forgive that, if I
can only draw.
And why draw ?
To . . . to get all that I have been crying for since the
world began. To get all that I have wanted, and still want.
To get on by my talent, or in any way I can, but to get on.
If I had all that, perhaps I should do nothing.
Friday, October 12th. — "Do you know, Monsieur," I said
to Julian, " I am quite disheartened. A lady said to me only
yesterday that it was of no use for me to work, as I had no
talent."
" The lady said that ? "
" Yes, and in earnest too."
" Well, you may tell her that if in three months — three
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PARIS, 1877. 279
months are not long — if in three months you can't do her
portrait, full face, three-quarters or profile, just as she likes —
and not a bad portrait either, I say — like, and not badly done
.... Well, she will see. I say three months — and if I say it
aloud, so that all the students may hear, it is because what
1 prophesy is nothing wonderful, but quite sure to happen."
Those are his exact words, said with a trace of Marseillais
accent, which twenty years spent in Paris have not entirely
effaced, and so much the better. I am so fond of a
Southern accent.
Saturday, October VMh. — Saturday is the day for M. Tony
Robert Fleury tp come to the studio, the painter who did the
Last Day of Corinth, which was bought by the State, and
placed in the Luxembourg.
You know, the best artists in Paris come now and then to
give us their advice.
I began last Wednesday, and he could not come on the
Saturday of the same week, so that for me it is his first visit.
When he came to my easel and began to pronounce judg-
ment, I interrupted him —
"Excuse me, Monsieur ... I only began ten days
ago."
" Where did you draw before ? " he asked, looking at my
drawing.
" Nowhere."
" What do you mean by nowhere ? "
" Well, I took thirty-two lessons in painting to amuse
myself."
" That isn't working."
" I know, Monsieur . . . and ..."
" You never drew from the life before you came here ? "
" Never, Monsieur."
" Impossible ! "
" I assure you . . ."
" You have never had advice ? "
" Oh yes . . . four years ago I took lessons as a little girl ;
they maae me copy engravings." •
" That's nothing at all — that's not what I mean."
And as he still seemed incredulous I had to add —
" I will give you my word of honour, if you like."
" Well, then, you show quite extraordinary promise ; you
are really gifted, and I advise you to work."
" I have done nothing; else for ten days. Will you look
&t what I did before this head ? "
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280 MARIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
" Very welL I will finish with these young ladies and
then come back."
" Well," he said, after having visited three or four easels,
" show me, Mademoiselle."
"Here, Monsieur," I said, beginning with the head of
Archangelo; and as I was only going to show him two, he
said —
" No, no, show me all you have done."
I showed the study of the nude male figure un-
finished, for it was only begun last Thursday; the
head of the singer seen from below, which he found
very characteristic ; a foot, a hand, and the nude study
of Augustine.
" Did you do that study alone ? "
" Yes, and I had not only never drawn, but not even seen,
the nude before."
He smiled, and did not believe it at all, so that I had
again to give my word of honour, and he again said, " It is
marvellous, and gives extraordinary promise for the future.
This study of the nude is not at all bad, and that part is even
well done. Work away," &c. &c. . . .
Then more friendly advice. The other students having
heard all this became jealous, because not any of them had
heard anything approaching it concerning themselves, though
they had been studying one, two, and three years, and
drew from the life with splendid models, and painted at the
Louvre. No doubt more is expected of them; but they
might have got their meed of praise, too, in another
way. . . .
It is true, then, and I ... I won't say anything ; it might
bring me ill-luck . . . but I recommend myself to God. I
am so afraid ! . . .
I got a severe snub for it, though indirectly.
The Spanish g[irl — a good-natured girl on the whole, and
most obliging, quite inaa about painting, yet with a very in-
correct eye — speaking of some Dutch woman, said that when
you first come to a studio you are sure to astonish every one
by rapid progress ; that this little improvement which is a
great deal for those who know nothing is easily acquired;
that it is only when you know sometning that you have
most to learn.
Just as if there were not now two or three beginners ! And
do they improve as much as I do ?
Let me resume and finish up with my successes.
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PARIS, 1877. 281
" Well, Mademoiselle," exclaimed Julian, crossing his arms
in front of me.
I was almost afraid, and asked him, blushing all the
while, what was the matter.
"But that is splendid; you work on Saturday till the
evening when every one else stops work ! "
" Yes, Monsieur ; I have nothing else to do, and I must do
something."
" It is admirable. You know that M. Robert Fleury was
anything but displeased with you ? "
" Yes, he told me so."
" Poor Robert Fleury ! he is still ailing."
And the master, sitting down in the midst of us, began to
chat . . . which he seldom does, so we know how to value
such a favour.
After his visit poor Robert Fleury had chatted with our
good Julian. Now I wanted to hear something more, ex-
pecting only praises of course.
So I went to the master as he came to correct the drawing
of an adorable little blonde girl, who was commencing her
studies in the extra room.
" Monsieur Julian . . . pray tell me what M. Robert
Fleury said of me ... I know, I know that I know nothing ;
but he has been able to judge ... a little, how I am
beginning, and if ... "
" If you but knew what he said of you, Mademoiselle, you
would blush a little."
"Never mind, Monsieur, I'll try to listen without too
much . . ."
" He told me it was done very intelligently, that ..."
" He would not believe that I had ever drawn before."
"Oh dear no. And while speaking to me he was still
rather incredulous, so that I haa to tell him how you had
done the head of Archangelo that I made you begin again
. . . you remember ? It was just like that ; like some one who
knew nothing at all about it"
" Yes, Monsieur."
And we laughed. It was such fun !
Now that the surprises, astonishments, encouragements,
incredulities all these delightful things are over, now begins
the work.
Madame D dined with ua I was calm, reserved,
silent, hardly amiable. I have no thought except for drawing,
at present
Whilst writing this I stopped, thinking of all the
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282 MARIE BA8HKTBT8EFR
work that it will require, the time, the patience, the diffi-
culties. . . .
It is not as easy to become a great painter as it is to say
the words ; besides talent and genius, there is also that relent-
less mechanical labour . . . And I heard a voice say, " You
will feel neither the time, nor the difficulties, and you will
reach the goal unexpectedly ! " And I have a firm belief in
this voice, which has never deceived me. It has foretold me
enough misfortunes for it not to lie this time. I have faith
in it, and I feel that I am right to believe.
I shall get the Prix de Rome !
Monday, 15th October. — These are our models for the
week : —
In the morning a girl of eleven for the head, very interest-
ing, with hair the colour of burnished copper.
In the afternoon, a certain Percichini for the nude.
In the evening — for this evening it was the opening of
the evening classes, from eight to ten — another man, also
for the undraped model
M. Julian was quite wonder-struck to see me there. In
the evening he worked with us. I was very much amused.
They joked about politics and such matters.
Events of the day are easily made piquant But as he
would not give his opinion I played tne Marseillaise for
him.
Let me see, how many were we this evening ?
Myself, the Polish girl, Forchammer, a French girl,
Amelia (the Spanish girl), an American girl, and the
master.
Dina was present It is so interesting, the light falls so
well on the model, the shadows are so simple.
Tuesday, October 16th. — M. Robert Fleury came in the
afternoon and took particular notice of me.
I remained as usual the whole day at the studio from nine
till half-past twelve. I cannot yet manage to get there
precisely at eight.
At noon I go out, take lunch, and return at twenty
minutes past one, stay till five in the evening, and come back
from eight to ten, which makes nine hours a day.
That does not tire me at all. If more work could be
done, I should do it There are some people who call this
working, I call it play, and I say it without boasting. Nine
hours' work a day is so little, and to think that I shall not be
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PARIS, 1877. 283
able to do it every day, because it is so far from the Champs-
l£lys£es to the Rue Vivienne ; and also because often nobody
will accompany me in the evening, because I must- return
home at half-past ten, and before I get asleep it is midnight,
and the next day I lose an hour. Besides, oy attending the
class regularly from eight to twelve, and from one to live, I
shall have eight hours.
In the winter it will be dark at four ; well, I must
absolutely go in the evening.
We have a coup6 always in the morning, and the landau
for the rest of the day.
You see I must do in one year the work of three. And as
I make rapid progress, these three years rolled up into one,
will equal six years, at least, for a person oi ordinary
intelligence.
I speak like the fools who say, " What another would do in
two years, she will do in six months." Nothing can be more
untrue.
It is not a question of speed, otherwise one could do
anything in time. No doubt, with patience, you can obtain
certain results. But what I pledge myself to do at the
end of a year or two the Danish girl will never do at
all. When I set about rectifying human error, I get con-
fused and irritated, because I have never time to firiish my
sentence.
In short, if I had begun three years ago, I could be content
with six hours a day ; Dut now I want nine, ten, twelve, in
fact, as many as I can get. Certainly, even if I had
commenced three years ago I should do well to work
as much as possible ; but what is passed is past. . . .
Enough ! . . . .
Gordigiani told me he had worked twelve hours a
day.
From twenty-four hours take seven for sleep ; two to
undress, say your prayers, wash your hands at intervals,
dress, do your hair and so on, two for eating and breathing-
time, makes eleven hours.
It is quite true thirteen hours remain.
Yes, but my coming and going take an hour and a quarter.
Well, yes, I lose nearly three hours.
When I work at home, I won't lose them any more. But
then, if there are people to see, and drives and theatres ! I
shall try to avoid all tnat, for it only bores me.
Thursday, October 18th. — My study of the nude pleased
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284 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Julian so much that he said it was quite " extraordinary and
'prodigious for a beginner. Just look, if it is not surprising !
There is depth in it, and the tone is not bad, and it is really
well-proportioned for a beginner. "
All the students stood up, and came to see my drawing ;
while I stood by, blushing.
Oh dear, how delighted I am !
This evening's study of the nude was f» bad that M.
Julian advised me to do it again. In tiring to do it too
well I spoiled it this evening. The day before yesterday it
was not bad.
Saturday, October 20th. — Breslau has received many
compliments from Robert Fleury ; I did not . The nude
was pretty good, but the head was not. I think with
terror of the time it will take me to learn to draw really
well
It is just fifteen days that I have been working, leaving
out, of course, the two Sundays. Fifteen days !
Breslau has been working for two years at the studio, and
she is twenty, while I am seventeen ; but Breslau had worked
a great deal at drawing before she came here.
But as for me — poor me ! I have been drawing only a
fortnight. ...
How well that Breslau does draw !
*
Movday, Octolwr 22vd. — The model was ugly, and every-
one in the studio refused to draw him. I proposed to go and
see the Prix de Rome, which were being exhibited at the
Beaux-Arts. Half of them walked, and Breslau, Mme.
Simonides, Zilhardt, and I, drove there.
The exhibition closed yesterday. We walked about on the
quays, looked at the old lx>oks and engravings, and talked art.
Then in an oj>en fiacre we went to the Bois. Can't you see
me doing it ? I would not say anything, it would have
spoilt their pleasure. They were so charming, so well-
behaved, and we were just beginning to be at ease with one
another.
Indeed, all would have gone well enough if we had not
met the landau with all my family, which took to follow-
ing us.
I made a sign to the coachman not to pass in front of us ;
they saw me, and I knew it, but did not care to speak to them
before my artist friends. I had my cap on my head, and I
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PARIS, 1877. 285
looked untidy and uncomfortable. Naturally, my people
were furious, and, more than that, hurt with me.
I was dreadfully annoyed — in short, it was a tiresome
thing to happea
Wednesday, October 241/t. — For the evening we have a
young woman — rather a good figure.
M. Robert Fleury came yesterday evening and said I was
wrong to miss the sitting, as I was one of the best workers.
In short, M. Julian gave me the message in rather a flattering
manner.
It is already very flattering that my absence should even
have been noticed by a professor like Robert Fleury.
Yet, when I think I might have been working for four
years, at the very least ! . . . . and I am always thinking of
that.
Saturday, October 21th. — I have received many com-
pliments, as they say at the studio.
M. Robert Fleury expressed to me his satisfaction and
astonishment, telling me that I was making surprising
progress, and that I was really extraordinarily gifted.
" Not many could have done so well with so little practice.
This drawing is very good, you understood, very good, for
you. I advise you to work, Mademoiselle ; and if you
work, I assure you that you may be able to do something
not at all bad."
" Not at all bad," is the stereotyped expression.
I believe he said, " There are many who have already
worked at drawing and would not do as well ; " but I
am not sure enough of it to put down so flattering a
sentence.
I had lost Pincio, and the poor animal not knowing what
was to become of him, came back to wait for me at the studio,
whither he is in the habit of accompanying me. Pincio is a
little Roman wolf-dog, white as snow, with straight ears, and
eyes and nose as black as ink.
I hate little curly white dogs.
Pincio is not at all curly, and he takes the most
extraordinary attitudes, so graceful, so like a goat among the
rocks, that I have never yet seen any one who failed to
admire him.
He is almost as intelligent as Rosalie is the reverse. Rosalie
has gone to her sister's wedding ; she went this morning after
having accompanied me to the studio.
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286 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
"But, Rosalie," said mamma to her, "you have left
Mademoiselle alone at the studio."
" Oh no, Madame ; Pincio was with Mademoiselle."
I assure you she said it quite seriously ; but, as I am a
little mad, I lost or forgot my guardian,
Sunday, October 28th. — Schaeppi has begun my portrait.
I had never thought such beings existed. It would never
come into her head that a person whom she likes, who is
sympathetic to her, could wear false hair and use powder.
A man who does not always toll the absolute truth is an
impostor, a liar, a horrible wretch ; she despises him.
Yesterday, she and Breslau thinking ot my uneasiness (I
was at lunch), wanted to bring Pincio back to me at once ;
but the Spanish girl and others began to cry out that they
were making themselves my servants because I was rich. I
Questioned her a great deal about what they thought of me at
the studio.
" They would like you very much if you had less talent ; "
and then, " they do nothing but talk of you when you are not
there."
It will always be the same, then; shall I never be able
to pass unnoticed, as others do ? This is flattering, but
unfortunate.
The Spaniard is a girl of twenty-tive, who pretends
to be twenty-two, and who has a passion for painting,
but no talent At the same time she is amazingly good,
and obliging towards every one. You would think she
was paid to wait on every one, and to take care of the
studio.
She trembles when Robert Fleury or Julian pays atten-
tion to one of the students. . . . She is jealous even of me,
who have hardly commenced, and certainly I do not know
as much as she does, though 1 have unfortunately some
talent.
Saturday, November 3rd. — M. Robert Fleury had already
corrected every one's work when I arrived. I presented my
drawings to him, and then hid myself behind or beneath his
stool as usual Well, I was forced to come out, he said so
many nice things to me.
" It no doubt still shows inexperience in the outlines ; but
it is astonishingly supple and true. That action is indeed
very good. At present, of course, you are lacking in
experience ; but you possess everything that cannot be
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PARIS, 1877. 287
acquired. Do you understand ? Everything that cannot bt,
acquired. That which you do not know can be learnt, and
you will learn it
" Yes, it is wonderful ; and if only you will work, you'll
do excellent things ; I will vouch for that."
" And I too, Monsieur."
It is two o'clock ; I am rejoicing in my Sunday. From
time to time I interrupt myself in this historic diary, in order
to look at an anatomical figure, and some drawings of bare
muscles which I bought to-day.
Wednesday, November 7th. — The weather is grey and
damp ; I live only in the unwholesome air of the studio.
The city, the Bois, are death to me.
I don't work enough.
I am young— -very young I know; but not for what I
wanted to do. I wanted to be famous at the age I am now,
and not to need any letters of recommendation. I was
foolish and wrong to wish it, since I have done nothing more
than wish it
I shall succeed when the most charming of the three
periods of youth is past — that period for which I wanted
everything. To my thinking there are three periods of
youth — from sixteen to twenty, from twenty to twenty-five,
and from twenty-five to ... to what you wilL The other
youths which people have invented are nothing but consola-
tions and nonsense.
At thirty maturity commences. After thirty one may be
beautiful, young — younger even ; " but it's no longer the same
tobacco," as Alexandre Lautrec says (the son of the one at
Wiesbaden).
Thursday, November 8th. — There is only one thing which
could tear me away from the studio before it closes, and for
the whole afternoon, and that is Versailles. As soon as they
received the tickets they sent Chocolat to me, and I went
back to change my dresa
On the staircase I met Julian, who was astonished to see
me leaving so early. I explained to him, repeating that
nothing but Versailles could induce me to leave the studio.
He says it is all the more admirable, as I might so easily go
and enjoy myself.
" I enjoy myself only here, Monsieur."
" And how right you are ! You will see what a pleasure
it will be to you in two months."
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288 MAE1E BA8HEJBT8EFF.
" You know that I mean to be a real artist, and I don't
draw merely for amusement . . ."
"I should hope not! It would be treating an ingot of
gold as if it were copper : it would be a sin. I assure you
that with the facility you possess, I see it by the surprising
things you do, well, you don't need more than a year and a
half to develop a real talent"
" Oh ! "
" I repeat — a real talent"
" Take care, Monsieur, I shall go away enchanted."
" I speak the truth ; you will see for yourself. By the end
of this winter you will make really good drawings, then you
will still continue drawing ; and I give you six months to get
used to the colours, and then you will show what you
can do."
Heavens ! As I drove towards home I laughed and wept
for joy, and dreamed of people giving me five thousand francs
for a j>ortrait
It is terrible for ladies to be alone at a station . . . until
we are installed in our wretched seats at the tribune. It is
raining.
They spoke of nothing but the validations of the elections ;
but these validations gave rise to some incidents, so that the
sitting was interesting.
I must not go often to the Chamber of Deputies, it might
draw me away from the studio ; you get interested, and you
go on and on, every day is a fresh page of the same book I
could become so passionately interested in politics that I
should lie awake ; but my politics are there, at the Rue
Vivienne, that is for me the road to get to the Chamber, after
a very different fashion from the present. A year and a half
— that's nothing !
So much happiness frightens me.
A year and a half tor portraits; but for pictures . . .
suppose we say two or three years . . . We shall see.
I looked pretty ; but towards eight o'clock was very tired,
which, however, did not prevent me from going to draw for at
least an hour.
Satwrday, November 10th. — M. Robert Fleury was unwell
and tired, and hardly corrected half of our drawings. No
one received any compliments — nor did I. I was rather
surprised, as Julian thought that what I had done was
food. That's true; but within myself I was dissatisfied,
am annoyed.
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PARIS, 1877. 289
Afterwards we made some sketches, one of which, a
sort of caricature, was a succesa Julian made me sign it
and put it in his album.
How much more the unpleasant things strike one than
the pleasant ones!
For the last month I have heard nothing but encour-
aging praise, except once, a fortnight ago : this morning, I
am found fault with, and I remember nothing but this
morning, and it is always like that in everything. A thou-
sand people applaud, one alone hisses, ana is heard above
the thousand.
The nude studies of the afternoon and evening have not
been corrected. Ah ! I am not so much to blame ! you
remember that I did not like the models and that we only
began on Tuesday ; Monday there was some confusion on
account of the models, and besides, I was placed just in
front of the man, quite close, and below him ; the most
difficult pose of alL Never mind; it is a bad sign, my
child, when one has to seek for excuses.
Tuesday, November 13£/l — The opinion of M. Robert
Fleury never agrees with that of M. Julian, so that the
latter often refrains from saying what he thinks. The
gentlemen down-stairs have Robert Fleury, Boulanger, and
some one else besides, whereas we have only Robert Fleury
It is not fair.
There is to be a competition. First a competition for
places, so that chance may not sometimes give a bad place
to the best student, and the reverse to one who would not
know how to make use of it And then a competition
which will last a whole week.
There is to be one every two months, I believe, and
Breslau advises me very strongly to compete for a place,
as it will be useful to me m two months' time, if not
now.
While waiting for the carriage which is to come at a
quarter to eight this evening, I am studying my figure
snowing the muscles.
Wednesday, November lUk — I have been to the neigh-
bourhood of the £cole de Medicine, to get various books
and plaster casta I went to Vasser'a You know Vasser,
who sells all kinds of anatomical models, skeletons, &c.
Well, I have some influence there through friends, and
they spoke of me to M. Mathias Duval, who is professor of
u 2
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290 MARIE BA8HKIBT8EFF.
anatomy at the Beaux-Arts, and to other people and
some one is to come and give me lessons.
I am enchanted: the streets were full of students
coming out from the schools. These narrow streets !
these musical instrument makers, and all that kind of
thing ! Ah, heavens ! how well I understood the magic, if I
may call it so, of the Quartier Latin!
I have nothing of the woman about me but the
envelope, and that envelope is deucedly feminine. As for
the rest, that's quite another affair. It is not I who say
this, since it seems to me that all women are like
myself.
Speak to me of the Quartier Latin, and welcome. It
is there that I feel reconciled to Paris: you could imagine
yourself far away in Italy almost . . . although an Italy
of a different kind, of course.
The people in society, otherwise known as bourgeois,
will never understand me. Indeed, it is not to them that
I address myself, but to those of our own set.
Unhappy girls, listen !
For instance, my mother is horrified at seeing me in a
shop where one sees such things. Oh, sucn things
" Naked peasants ! " Philistine ! when I have painted a
beautiful picture, they will see only the poetry, tne flower,
the fruit They never think of the dunghilL
I see only the end, the goaL And I march straight on
towards this goaL
I love to go to the booksellers and other people, who,
thanks to my unassuming dress, take me for a Breslau
or some one of that class; they look at you in a certain
kindly encouraging way, which is quite different from what
I am accustomed to.
One morning I went with- Rosalie to the studio in
a cab. To pay the man I gave him a twenty-franc
piece.
"Oh, my poor child, I have no change to give
you."
It is such fun!
Thursday, November 15th. — We have had the compe-
tition for places, a sketch of a head to be done in an
hour.
It will be decided on Saturday ; I am not anxious about
it, however, for if I am last of all it will be only fair. I
have been studying a month, the others at least a year
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PARIS, 1877. 291
each, roughly speaking, without counting what they have
done elsewhere than in this studio; they have studied in
earnest, being artists by profession. It is that rogue of a
Breslau whom I fear most. She is admirably gifted, and
not bad-looking; I assure you she will make her way.
I cannot get it into my head that she has been drawing
at Julian's about five hundred days, and I only thirty — that
is to say, with Julian alone she has worked more than
fifteen times as much as I have. If I am really rifted, in
six months I shall be able to do as well as sne does.
Surprising things may happen, but there are no miracles
in things of tnis sort, and yet a miracle is what I
want !
I am discontented at not being the best at the end of
one month.
Friday, November 16th. — I have been to see poor
Schaeppi at a boarding-house in the Avenue de la Grande
Arm6e. Quite an artistic garret, and so clean that there is
a look almost of wealth about it
Breslau and several other budding artists live there.
Sketches, studies, and a lot of interesting things about
the room. This contact with artistic things, this atmo-
sphere alone does me good
I can't forgive myself for not knowing as much as Breslau.
.... The fact is ... . I have never gone deeply into
anything in life, though I know a little of everything ; and I
am afraid it will be the same in this ; and yet, no ; from the
way I am working, it must turn out welL It does not follow
because you have never done a thing that you will never be
able to cfo it. At each beginning I doubt arresh.
Saturday, November VI th. — M. Robert Fleury was not
satisfied with the likeness. Now as I catch likenesses well,
as a rule, and as you don't lose the qualities you already
possess, this doesn't trouble me much. I shall begin
again.
The competition was decided. There were eighteen
competitors. I am thirteenth ; so there are five below me ;
that s not so bad. The Polish girl first ; quite unfair !
I was complimented on my studies from the nude.
I bought different kinds of anatomical models and
skeletons, and all night I dreamt that they were bringing
me subjects to dissect
What would you have ? I am worn out ; -my hands are
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292 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
no longer capable of anything but drawing and playing on the
harp. And yet it is ... . absurd that Breslau snould draw
better than I do.
My sketch was the most forward.
"All this in an hour," cried M. Robert Fleury. "She
works like one possessed."
And I must tell you that M. Julian and the others said
at the men's studio that I had neither the touch, nor the
manner, nor the capabilities of a woman ; and that they
would like to know if there is any one in my family from
whom I have inherited so much talent and vigour, nay even
brutality, in drawing, and so much perseverance in my work.
Still, is it not absurd that I cannot yet make a composi-
tion ?
I do not know how to balance my figures. 1 have
tried to draw a scene in the studio. Well, it does not
compose. It doesn't look like anything. It is true I did
it entirely out of my head, from imagination, and I never
troubled myself to notice how my people walked. No ....
it is frightful !
Sunday, November 18th. — In the evening I made a sketch
of my washhand-stand — or, rather, of Rosalie standing before
it ; tne sketch holds together, and has a look of reality about
it ; the arrangement pleases me ; when I draw better, Til do it
again — perhaps in oila A washhand-stand and a lady's-
maid have never been done without a Cupid, a flower, a
broken vase, a feather-broom, &c. &c, or something of the
kind.
Friday, November 23rd. — That creature Breslau has done
a composition — Monday Morning, or the Choice of a Model.
The whole studio is there, and Julian is next to me and
Amelia, &c. &c. It is done correctly, the perspective good,
the likenesses, everything is thera When you are capable of
doing a thing like that, you are certain to become a great
artist.
You can guess, can't you ? I am jealous. That is a good
thing, because it is an incentive.
But I have been drawing these six weeks. Breslau will
always be ahead of me, having commenced before I did.
Now in two or three months I shall be able to draw as
she does — that is to say, really well. I am pleased, besides,
to find a rival worthy of me ; the others would have sent me
to sleep.
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PARIS, 1877. 293
Ah ! It is terrible, to want to draw like a master after six
weeks' work
Grandpapa is ill, and Dina is at her post, full of devotion
and care. She has grown much better-looking, and is so
good ! If Providence does not send her a little happiness —
sajyristi ! — I shall give le bon Dieu the benefit of my
opinion.
Saturday, November 24>th. — This evening at the studio
there were present only Amelia, I, and Julian, the servant and
Rosalie.
M. Julian sent for the competition drawings of the male
students, our own, and also the caricatures of the male
students, to show us.
We began to look at and judge our drawings, in anticipa-
tion of the real decision, which will take place on Tuesday,
and will be given by MM. Robert Fleury, Lefebvre, and
Boulanger.
There will be a contest between Breslau and a French
girl (who has been four years in the studio, always does
profiles, has no spark of genius, but draws perfectly), and
also another girl. Amelia, the Polish girl, and that stout
Jenny send in paintings. When he came to my head,
Julian said something of this kind: —
"You may possibly not have a good place because you
are in competition with girls who have been three or four
years in the studio, and who are really advanced, but your
head is certainly one of the best as a likeness. If our work
is phenomenal ! Show it to any great master you like, and
ask him how long it takes to be able to draw like
this from Nature; and no one — no one, I tell you — will
say less than a year. Of course, however, it is very
imperfect"
And he save me a lesson by comparing my drawing
with that of the French girl.
" And in your studies from the nude there is a great
deal wanting, but there is no evident fault in drawing.
If you were to tell any one that after a month or six
weeks' work, you made your figures stand and balance like
this — drawn from life, too — they would say you were making
fun of them."
" And yet, Monsieur, I am not satisfied with myself."
And when I said it, I assure you I meant it
" Not satisfied ? "
" No ; I still hope to do a little better . . ."
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294 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
" If you continue like this, you will do wonders. What
you do already is, as I have told you, phenomenal"
He never speaks so when many are present ; it would
cause a revolution.
Yes, no doubt I shall have a bad place. Those brutes
do not know how short a time I have been drawing, and,
not seeing the model, they will not be able to judge of
the likeness.
I needed a little encouragement, because this morning,
I assure you, I felt very down-hearted.
Monday, November 26th. — At last I have taken my
first lesson in anatomy — from four to half-past, just after
my drawing.
M. Cuyer teaches me. He was sent by Mathias Duval,
who has promised to show me the iScole des Beaux-
Arts. I began with the bones, of course, and one of the
drawers of my writing-table is full of vertebrae . . . real
ones. It is horrible, when you think that the other two
contain scented paper and visiting-cards from Naples, &c.
On returning from the studio, I found M. Cuyer waiting
in the twilight of the drawing-room, and on the sofa opposite
I found mamma and Marcuard, most pompous of commanders,
who had returned for ten days, and wno kissed my hand
covered with charcoal, and . . . which had been in contact
with vertebrae, for I had stolen away from the drawing-room
to take my lesson.
Tuesday, November 27th. — M. Julian came up to us, a
little disconcerted, after the decision of MM. Robert Fleury,
Boulanger, and Lefebvre. I give you his speech as nearly as
I can : —
"Ladies, the examiners have only riven places to six
heads after the one which gained the medal, awarded, as you
already know, to Mile. Delsarte (the French girl). The
others have been simply classified for places at the next com-
petition ; the three last are to draw lots." In order, no doubt,
to spare the feelings of the ladies.
A voice said to me that I should be one of those to
draw lots ; it would have been quite natural, and yet I felt
vexed.
After the little speech, which made a considerable im-
pression on every one, he continued —
" I cannot tell to whom these heads belong. Will one of
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PARIS, 1877. 295
you ladies kindly write the names as I go on ? Who is the
first?"
"Mile. Wick"
"Second?"
"Mile. Bang."
"Third?"
" Mile. Breslau."
" Fourth ? "
" Mile. Nordtlander."
"Fifth?"
"Mile. Forchammer."
"Sixth?"
" Why, it's Mile. Marie ! " exclaimed the Polish girL
" I, Monsieur ? "
"Yes, Mademoiselle."
" But it's absurd ! "
I am among the first six ; Amelia, Zilhardt, and the Polish
girl come after me. I was the last to come to the studio,
seeing that I have been there only since the 3rd of October.
Saprtsti !
They all came up to congratulate me. Mile. Delsarte said
all sorts of flattering things, and her sister Marie called us the
two heroines of the competition.
" What you have done after so short a time is better than
a medal at the end of four years' study."
A success, and what a charming one !
Friday, November 30th. — At last I took my mandoline
to the studio, and every one was delighted with the charm-
ing instrument — the more so as to those who have never
heard it before I seem to play welL In the evening,
during the interval of rest, I was playing, and Amelia
accompanying me on the piano, when in came the master,
who stopped to listen.
If only you could have seen how delighted he was !
" And I, who always thought of the mandoline as a sort
of guitar, on which people scraped — I had no idea it could
sing ; indeed, I could not have imagined such sweet sounds
could be drawn from it ; and how graceful it looks ! Ah !
I shall never speak against it any more. You would hardly
believe what a delighrul moment I spent. Ah ! it is beau-
tiful. You may laugh if you like, but I assure you it . . .
scrapes somethmg in the neart 'Tis strange ! "
Ah ! poor wretch, you feel it then !
This same mandoline met with no success at all one
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296 MARIE BASHKIBTSEFF.
evening when I played it at home, before a party of grand
people, ladies and gentlemen; and yet they were just the
persons who should pay compliments, whether they are
pleased or not
The brilliant lights, the white shirt-fronts, and powder,
sufficed to destroy the charm. Whereas the enclosed
space of the studio, the quietude of the evening, the
clark staircase, the fatigue — everything tends to make you
impressionable to whatever there is m this world that is
sweet, or ... . strange, or pleasant, or charming.
Mine is a terrible profession. Eight hours' work a day,
besides the going to and fro, and, above all, the work which
needs so much conscientiousness and intellectual effort.
There is nothing so silly as to draw without thinking of
what one is domg, without comparing, remembering, and
studying; but to draw in that way would not be tiring
at all
When the days grow longer, I shall work still more, so that
I may be ready when I go back to Italy.
I will succeed.
Wednesday, December 5th. — It has been dark all day, so
that we could not draw, and I went to the Louvre with a
Finnish girl ; and as she looked like an English governess,
I walkea there, delighted with the chic of my sealskin
cap, and mantle reaching to the ground.
It is really instructive to look at beautiful things with
some one who knows about them.
Saturday, December 8th. — I went to the theatre ; it was
very funny, people laughed all the time; lost time that I
regret.
I worked badly this week.
There would be many goings-on in the studio to tell
about, but I take my studio work seriously, and I do not
trouble myself about anything else ; it would be beneath me.
I regret that evening. I was not seen, and I did no work.
It is true I laughed ; but this inward satisfaction is of no
use to me ; therefore it is disagreeable, since it gave me no
pleasure.
Sunday, December 9th. — Dr. Charcot has just left ; I was
present at the consultation, and heard afterwards what the
aoctors said to each other, because I am the only person who
keeps calm and collected, and I am looked upon as a third
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PARIS, 1877. 297
physician. At all events, they do not expect any cata-
strophe for the present.
Poor grandpapa ! I should have been so grieved if he
had died just now, because we have often quarrelled ; but as
his illness will be of some duration, I have time to atone for
my hastiness. I remained in his room when he was at
the worst. ... To tell the truth, my appearance at the
bedside of a sick person is always a sign of its being a serious
case, for I hate assiduous attentions that are not needed,
and I never show anxiety unless I allow myself to do so.
You see that I never miss any opportunity of praising
myself.
I saw the new moon with my left eye ; that disturbs me.
Pray don't fancy that I was rough with grandpapa ; I only
treated him as an equal But as he is ill — very ill — I
regret it, and wish I had endured everything without saying
a word.
We never leave him, for as soon as any one goes away, he
asks for him to come back. George is with him. Dina is
always at his bedside ; that goes without saying. Mamma is
ill with anxiety. Walitzky — dear Walitzky ! — runs hither
and thither, attending on the patient, grumbling and consoling
at the same time.
I said that I should wish to bear everything without
saying a word ; I seem like an unhappy ill-treated creature ;
there was nothing to endure, but I was irritated and irritable,
and grandpapa oeing just in the same mood, I lost my
patience and answered rather sharply, and sometimes I was
wrong. I don't want to pose as an angel disguised under a
cloak of wickedness.
Tuesday, December 11th. — Grandpapa has lost the power
of speech. ... It is terrible to see this man — who so
recently was still strong, energetic, and young — to see him
look like this .... almost a corpse. . . .
I continue to draw from the bones. I am more than ever
with Breslau, Schaeppi, &c. ; the Swiss set, in fact.
Wednesday, December 12th. — At one o'clock the priest
and the deacon came and administered extreme unction to
grandpapa Mamma was crying, and praying aloud ; after-
wards .... I went to lunch. Such are the animal needs
which do and must exist in every one of us.
Saturday, December 15th. — As was expected, Breslau had
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298 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
an immense success. She draws so well As for me, they
found some very good points in my head, and some not at all
bad ones in my study from the nude. I am .... I don't
know what Breslau has been drawing these three years, and
I only two months. Never mind ; it is shamefuL Oh ! if I
had commenced three years ago — only three years ; it is not
so very much — I shoula be known by now.
There is a comedy going on in the studio. A subscription
had been organised to offer M. Robert Fleury and M. Julian
a photograph of all the pupils of the studio. Just at this
time the Spanish girl, forgetting herself through her over-
anxiety to be the head of the studio, was rude to Breslau,
who answered sharply, and the students divided into two
camps.
The Swiss girls, five in number, one for all, all for
one ! They no longer speak to the Spanish girl. The
descendants of William Tell refused to subscribe, and got
quite angry. I called them together in the ante-room, and
made a speech to show them the folly of their conduct in
acting thua They were offering an affront to the master,
at the same time that they delighted the Spanish girl by
making her seem of so much importance.
So they re-considered their decision. Then, in order
the better to prove to the Spanish girl that I absolutely
refused to recognise her as my superior, I offered to break
open the money-box this morning at nine o'clock. The
terrible Spanish girl had not yet arrived. They seconded
the proposal, and proceeded to execute it, and I counted
out a nundred and seven francs and one sou. Upon
which I went to announce the result in the room of caste.
" Is Mile. A there ? " I was asked by a kind of
apple-woman, who has her daughter taught drawing.
"No, Madame."
" How strange ! I thought it was she who had
" All the pupils contributed, Madame ; therefore all
the pupils wished to know the result, and it was in their
presence that the money-box was opened. Good morning,
Madame."
The Spanish girl came. She said nothing, but I can
boast of naving another enemy. I can also boast that I
don't care a fig about it.
Saturday, December 22?wf. — Robert Fleury said to me:
"You must never be satisfied with yourself"
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PARIS, 1877. 299
So did Julian. Now, as I never have been satisfied
with myself, I began to ponder on what they had said.
And after Robert Fleury had been saying many kind
things to me, I replied that he was quite right to do so,
for I was thoroughly dissatisfied with myself, discouraged,
and in despair, which made him open his eyes with
surprise.
And in truth I was discouraged. The moment my
work does not strike people with astonishment I get dis-
couraged. It is very unfortunate.
As a matter of fact, I have made unheard-of progress ;
I am constantly told that I show " extraordinary promise,"
that I get the likeness, that the " ensemble is good/ and " in
drawing." " What more do you want, Mademoiselle ? "
"Be reasonable," he said, in conclusion.
He stood a very long time before my easeL
" When one draws like this," he said, pointing first to the
head, and then to the shoulders, "one has no business to
draw shoulders like that"
The Swiss girls and I, all in disguise, went to Bonnat, to
ask him to take us into his studio for male students. Of
course, he explained to us that these fifty young men being
under no supervision it was absolutely impossible. Then we
went to Munk&csy (I don't know if I spell his name correctly),
a Hungarian painter, who has a splendid house, and great
talent
He knows the Swiss girls, who had a letter of recommen-
dation to him a twelvemonth ago.
Saturday, December 29th. — M. Robert Fleury was much
pleased with me. He stood at least half an hour before a
pair of feet that I had done lifesize, and asked me again if I
nad never before painted, and if I meant to take up paint-
ing seriously. How long should I be able to remain in raris ?
He wished to see my first attempts in oils, asking me how
I had succeeded. I answered that I had painted only for
amusement As he remained a long time by me, every one
came behind him to listen ; and in the midst of what I may
call general stupefaction, he declared that I might paint if I
were so inclined.
To that I replied that I was not dying to begin, and that I
preferred to perfect myself in drawing.
Sunday, December 30th, and Monday, December Slat. — I
feel dull ; we are not keeping up the holidays, and that makes
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300 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
me feel dulL I went to see the Christmas-tree at the house
of the Swiss girls; it was bright and pleasant, but I was sleepy,
having worked till ten at night. We had our fortunes told.
Breslau will win prizes, I am to get the Prix de Rome, and
the others will fau.
It is strange, all the same.
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30t
CHAPTER VI.
PARIS : ARTISTIC LIFE— 1878.
Friday, January bth. — How strange that the old self
should sleep so profoundly ! Hardly anything of it remains ;
now and then a reminiscence which awakens past bitterness,
but then immediately I think of ... . what ? Of Art ? It
makes me laugh.
Is this the last stage of the creature ? I have sought so
long and so cruelly for this end or means of existing without
cursing myself, or cursing the rest of creation all day long,
that I can hardly believe 1 have found it
With my black blouse on I have a look of Marie Antoinette
in the Temple.
I am beginning to become what I wished to be. Sure of
myself, outwardly calm, I avoid annoyances and petty worries.
I do few things that are useless.
In short, 1 perfect myself little by little. Let us under-
stand what I mean by the word perfection — perfection as it
applies to me.
Oh, time ! It is necessary for everything. Time is more
terrible, more irritating, more crushing than ever when it is
the only obstacle.
Whatever may happen to me, I am more prepared for
it than formerly when it made me furious to be obliged to
own that I was not perfectly happy.
Sunday, January 6th. — Well ! I am of your opinion ; time
passes, and it would be a hundred times more amusing to
spend it as I wanted to before; but as that is impossible,
let us wait for the results of my talent ; it will still be not too
late. . . .
We have removed; we live now at No. 67, Avenue de
TAlma. From my windows I can see the carriages passing in
the Champs-lSlysees. I have a drawing-room and studio in
one to myself Grandpapa had to be carried ; it was so sad to
see ! ... . As soon as ne was brought into his room, Dina
and I came to his side and waited upon him, and poor grand-
papa kissed our hands.
My bed-room reminds me of Naples. ... A glass was
broken in grandpapa's room.
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302 MABIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
Yes, iny room reminds me of Naples. The time for the
journey is approaching, and I feel, as it were, the soft fiimes
of my former idleness stealing over me. ... In vain ! . . . .
Monday, Januom/lth. — To believe, or not to believe, in
my artistic future ? Two years are not my whole life, and
after two years one can begin again a leisurely existence,
5;oing to theatres, travelling, &c. . . . I want to become
anious.
I will be.
Saturday, January 12th. — Walitzky died at two o'clock
this morning.
Last night, when I went to see him, he said to me, half
in fun and half sadly, "Addio, Signorina" to remind me of
Italy. Perhaps it was for the first time in my life that I
shed tears free from selfishness and anger.
There is something particularly distressing in the death of
any one so absolutely inoffensive and absolutely good. He
was like a poor dog who had never done harm to any
one.
Towards one o'clock he had felt better, and so the ladies
went back to their rooms. My aunt alone remained with him
when he gasped for breath, so that she had to throw water in
his face.
Coming to himself a little, he rose, as he was absolutely
bent on bidding adieu to grandpapa ; but when he reached
the corridor, he had only time to cross himself thrice, and to
call out in Russian ..." Adieu ! " in so loud a voice, however,
that mamma and Dina woke up and ran to him, only to see
him fall into the arms of my aunt and of Tryphon.
I cannot realise it ; it seems to me impossible ; it is so
terrible.
Walitzky dead ! It is an irreparable loss ; one can
hardly believe that such a character is to be found in real
life.
Attached like a dog to all our family, and quite
platonically. Oh yes ! unselfish to a degree.
You read of people like that in books. If only he can
know mv thoughts ! I hope that God may grant him the
Eower of knowing what we think and say 01 him. Let him
ear me then, wherever he may be ; and if he has ever
had to complain of me, he will forgive me for the sake of
my deep esteem, my sincere friendship, and my heartfelt
sorrow.
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PARIS, 1878. 303
Monday, January 2Sth. — The competition is to be
decided to-morrow. I am so afraid of getting a bad
place! ....
Tuesday, January 29th. — I was so mortally afraid of the
examination that poor Rosalie had to make superhuman
efforts to induce me to get up.
I expected either to obtain the medal, or else to be placed
only among the very last.
Neither one thing nor the other. I remained in the same
place I had two months ago ; consequently it was a failure.
I went to see Breslau, who is still ill
Tuesday, February 1 2th. — They misled me as to the time
when I was to take my place, and then a Spanish girl and two
others assured me that they had said nothing to me, and that
it was myself who had made the mistake. This lie, like all
lies, made me indignant — all the more, because I must
say it to the credit of humanity, that those whose part I had
taken at the time of the affair of the Swiss girls did not say a
single word to support me.
I say it, that it may be known ; as for me, I have no need
of protection ; I only protest when I am in the right
This morning I could not work at all, I could see nothing ;
and in the afternoon Berthe came, and I gave myself a
holiday.
This evening, at the Italian Opera, they played La
Traviata. Albani, Capoul, and Panaolfini, are great artists,
but it gave me no pleasure ; yet in the last act I had not
exactly the wish to die, but the idea that I sliould suffer and
die just at the moment when all was about to end happily.
It is a presentiment I have. I was dressed en bibi
— a very graceful costume when one is slight and of
good figure. The white bows on the shoulders, the bare
neck and arms, made me look like an Infanta of
Velasquez.
Die ? . . . It would be absurd : and yet it seems to
me that I am going to die. I cannot live. I am not
created according to the ordinary pattern. I have too much
of some things and a lot of things missing, and a character
not made to last. If I were a goadess, with all the universe
to serve me, I should find that I was ill served.
It is impossible to be more capricious, more exact-
ing, more impatient, than I am. Sometimes, or per-
haps even always, I have a certain undercurrent of
v
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304 MARIS BASEKERTSEFF.
reason and calm : but I cannot explain my meaning
exactly. I only tell you that my life cannot last My
plans, my hopes, my little vanities, fallen to the ground !
... I have been deceived in everything !
Wednesday, February 13^. — My drawing makes no
Erogress, and I feel as if some misfortune were about to
appen to me — as if I had done something wrong, and
feared the consequences, or else some insult. It seems
pitiful, but I am afraid in some ways.
Mamma makes herself quite unhappy, and it is her own
fault. There is one thing that I beg and pray of her not
to do — that is, not to arrange my things, not to put my
rooms in order. Well, whatever I may say, she does it with
an obstinacy which is almost morbid. And if you knew
how exasperating it is, and how it increases my impatience
and my brusque way of speaking, which do not need to be
made worse tnan they are.
I believe she is really fond of me, and I am really
fond of her, too, but we cannot be two minutes together
without irritating one another to tears. In short, we are
much worried wnen we are together, but we should be un-
happy were we separated.
I mean to give up everything for drawing. I must
remember this, tor that is life to me.
So I shall become independent, and then, come what
may, I am ready.
Friday, Fefyruary 15th — I shall not go to the opera
to-morrow.
I draw as well as usual, but that does not prevent my
being dissatisfied with myself. I told this to Robert Fleury
some time ago, and Saturday, when he was correcting our
studies from the nude, he said —
"Did you do that?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
" You never drew the whole figure before coming here ? "
" No."
" I think you complain ? "
" Yes, Monsieur."
" Of not getting on fast enough ? "
" Yes, indeed, Monsieur."
" Well, if I were in your place, I should be very well
satisfied."
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PARIS, 1878. 305
It was said with a kindly good-humour that was worth
many compliments.
Yes, but when shall I be able to paint portraits ? . . .
In a year .... at least, I hope so.
Sunday, February 24th. — I shall go to the studio, and
shall prove that one can succeed, when one has the will, and
as much baffled, as desperate, and as furious as I am.
Oh ! how long is the way ! One gets impatient — yes,
I get impatient; that is natural; but .... at twenty I
shall not be too old to begin to show my powers, and
by the time I am twenty I shall know if my hopes are
justified.
Saturday, March 2nd. — Robert Fleury was very pleased
with me this morning.
Monday, March 4dh. — My dog has been lost since Satur-
day. I kept hoping he would come back.
My poor dog, if there were room in my mind for any
feeling, I should De miserable about him. My poor lost dog !
If I were to die owing to everything I want, to everything
I have not !
Now I believe myself a misunderstood being.
It is the most abominable thing you can think ol your-
self.
A hundred thousand pretensions, and all equally unjusti-
fied. I knock myself against everything, and get bruised.
Tuesday, March 12th. — When I think of Pincio, who is
indeed lost, my heart aches.
I really cared for him, and his loss affects me almost as
much as Walitzky's death.
Especially when I think that the animal is in the hands of
strangers, that he misses me, and that I shall never again
see his little face, with the extraordinary black eyes and
nose. . . . That's right ; I am making myself cry now.
Ah ! sapristi, a thousand .... wnat you will ! I believe
I would rather see C , or anybody wounded, ill, or ruined,
than never again see my dog, who loved me so. I feel true
sorrow for his loss, and I don't care a straw for anything else.
Wednesday, March 13th. — Julian playfully admired my
stoicism, and tne Spanish girl said that those who work coldly
will never do anytning out of the common. As for her, she
v 2
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306 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
has so much enthusiasm that she has been working night and
day for four years ; she can't succeed in putting together a
head or a study from the nude, though she has a certain
power of painting solidly.
If I were a man I should not care to marry her ; all she
produces is disjointed.
My uncles, who themselves have no knowledge of friend-
ship, such as exists between people like C and myself,
think that he inspires me with a tender interest. It is evident
that they don't understand ; for to rive one's love to C
would be to want to make oneself a home .... on the
bridge of Avignon.
Saturday, March !6tL — I went to see the exhibition at
the Mirlitons. I really love my profession, and am always
glad to convince myself of this afresh.
Robert Fleury said to me this morning, " For some time
there has been a certain point beyond which you cannot go ;
that is bad. With the true gifts you possess, you ought not
to be stopped by easy things; the less so, that you can
conquer what is most difficult '
Yes, I know it, pardieu. A portrait to do at home, and
then the domestic worries. But that shall trouble me no
longer ; I will not let it. C will bring me nothing ; whereas
Eainting wilL And Monday you will see how I shall leap
eyond the point of which Robert Fleury spoke. I must,
above all, be quite convinced that I must succeed, and that I
will succeed.
Saturday, March 23rd. — I promised you to get beyond
the point of which Robert Fleury spoke.
I kept my word. They were extremely pleased with me.
They told me ^gain that it was worth while working with
such genuine abilities, that I had made astonishing progress,
and that in a month or two . . .
"You will be among the best of the students; and
remember," added Robert Fleury, looking at the picture of
Breslau, who was away, — "remember that I include those
who are not here to-day."
" You may expect," said Julian to me in a low voice, " to
be detested here, for I have never seen any one make such
progress as you have done in five months."
" Julian," said Robert Fleury, before everybody, " I have
just been giving the highest praise to Mademoiselle, who is
wonderfully gifted."
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PARIS, 1878. 307
Julian, in spite of his great size, seemed to float on wings.
For Robert Fleury is not paid, and only does the correcting
out of friendship; so that Julian is happy when his pupils
interest the master.
Julian came while the study from the nude was being
corrected (which he never does, as a rule) ; but I have noticed
that he has been watching mine with interest since Monday.
In short, with my habitual modesty, I will dwell no longer
on these flattering occurrences, but only notice an increase
of fifty per cent, in the jealousy of some, in the jealousy and
uneasiness of others.
The others begin to paint almost as soon as they feel
inclined : but I have placed myself under the especial care oi
Robert Fleury, who is quite willing ; I do nothing, except by
his orders. To-day he ordered me to do some studies from
still-life from time to time, very simple ones, just to get into
the way of handling the brush. This is already the second
time he has spoken to me of painting.
Next week, or the week after, I shall pamt for him, on a
canvas, No. 8, my skull, nicely arranged with a book, or some-
thing else.
Monday, March 25th. — It is the competition to-day. A
woman who looks a little like Croizette.
I have a fairly good place, and I think I am in the mood
for work. And then I don't mean to tire myself by staying
up late.
Robert Fleury came this evening; he is certainly very
pleased with me; he questioned me on anatomy, and, of
course, I answered without hesitation.
It is odious to be like me ; but I thank God I am good,
and not in love with any one. If I were, I should kill myself
with rage.
Saturday, March SOth. — I had not foreseen that from my
place I should have to turn my head each time to look ^t the
model. This movement is very trying to my nerves, and my
drawing is as bad as it can be. I am sure I shall be the last,
and I have told every one so.
The night classes are over, so I must arrange for some
work to do at home.
Thursday, April Uh. — I went to the studio early, and
was told of the decision, which is absolutely unheard of,
and upset everybody.
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308 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Vick has the medal (that's natural enough). Then comes
Madeleine (the girl who nearly always has the medal), and
then I. I am so taken by surprise that I am not even
It was so surprising that Julian went to ask Lefebvre (the
one who was elected hrst on the jury of the Salon) why he
had placed us thus. And Lefebvre and the students down-
stairs said that I had been placed third because they saw I
had the true feeling for drawing. As for Breslau, it seems
that her drawing was spoilt by chic. She sat far from the
model, and so her drawing was somewhat wanting in firmness ;
but as the professors are prejudiced against women, they took
that for chw.
Fortunately for me, Robert Fleury was away. Lefebvre
and Boulanger were the only judges ; otherwise they would
have said that it was due to Robert Fleury's influence that I
was third.
I don't know what to do with my evenings since the
evening classes have been closed, and it makes me tired.
Saturday, April 6th. — Robert Fleury really gives me
too much encouragement; he thought the second place
should have been given to me, and he was not in the
least surprised at my success.
It was absurd to see the fury of the others. I went
to the Luxembourg, and then to the Louvre with
SchaeppL
To think that M , after leaving us, probably went
home to dream of my arms and of me, and will think
that I am thinking of him !
Whilst I, undressed and untidy, with my hair tumbling
down, and my shoes on the ground, was asking myself if 1
had bewitched him sufficiently; and, not content with ask-
ing myself, I asked Dina.
And yet, O folly of youth! two years ago I should
have thought this was love. Now I am reasonable, and
understand^ that it is amusing when vou feel that you are
making some one love you — or, ratner, when you think
you see some one falling in love with you. The love one
inspires is a sensation unlike anything else, which one feels
oneself and which I formerly mistook for love.
On dear ! oh dear ! and I thought I was in love with
A , with his rather biff nose, which reminds me of
M 's. . . . Ugh, horrible !
I am so pleasea to justify myself — so pleased ! No, no,
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PARIS, 1878. 309
I have never been in love, and ... if you could only
imagine how happy I feel # — how free, and proud, and
worthy . . . worthy of him who is yet to come.
Tuesday, April 9th. — To-day I worked satisfactorily in
the morning ; in the afternoon I remained in bed, being un-
well It lasted two hours, after which I got up, almost
flad to have suffered. It is so nice afterwards; you feel so
appy to laugh at the jjain. How glorious is youth I
Twenty years hence it will last a whole day.
I have finished the Lys clans la Valine; the book is
very fatiguing, in spite of its many beauties.
The letter from Nathalie de Manerville, which closes
the book, is charming and true.
I read Balzac to my own detriment, for, indeed, the
same time spent in working would help me to become
myself a Balzac v in art
Friday, April 12th. — Yesterday Julian met Robert
Fleury at the caft, and Robert Fleury said I was a really
interesting and surprising pupil, and that he hoped much
from my future.
It is to that I must anchor myself, especially in those
moments when all my brain is invaaed by that inexplicable
and terrible fear, and when I feel myself sinking in an
abyss of doubt and torments of all kinds, without any cause
whatever.
Very often lately there have been three candles at home —
a sign of a death.
Am I the person destined to go to the next world ? It
seems so to me. And my future and my fame ? Oh, well, they
will be done for.
If there were any man in the landscape, I should believe
I was in love again ; I am so terribly restless ; but there is
none, and besides, I am disgusted. . . .
And yet there are days when I think you do not lose your
dignity by following your fancies; on the contrary, you
assert your pride, and indifference to other people's
opinion, by not resisting them. Ah! but they are all such
poor, such unworthy creatures, that I am incapable of giving
them a moment's thought. Firstly, they all have corns on
their feet, and I would not forgive that to a king. Imagine
me dreaming of a man with corns on his feet !
I begin to believe I have a true passion for my art, which
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310 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
reassures and consoles me. I want nothing else, and I am too
disgusted with everything to think of anything else.
If it were not for that uneasiness, that fear, I should be
happy.
It is quite fine — real spring-time. One feels it as much as
one ever can in Paris, where even in the most charming of
woods, under the trees, which seem most mysterious and fiill
of poetry, one is sure to find a waiter, with his white apron
turned up, and a glass of beer in his hand.
I get up at sunrise, and am at the studio before the model
If only I can free myself from this fear, this accursed super-
stition !
/ remember that in my chUdJtood I had a presentiment
and fear almost like this. It seemed to me that I shotdd
never be able to learn anything but French, and that other
languages could not be learnt. Well, you see, it was not so ;
and yet I had a reed superstitious fear, just like this one.
I hope this example will relieve my anxiety.
I thought that La Recherche de VAbsolu was quite
different, for I, too, am seeking after the Absolute. Now the
Absolute in feeling is the Absolute in everything. That is
what makes me think out and set down a thousand attempts
to express the truth, at the end of which I succeed to a
certain extent, but do not hit the mark exactly.
Saturday, April \Sth. — At twenty- two I shall be either
famous or dead.
You think perhaps that one works only with the eyes
and fingers ?
You who are bourgeois, you will never know the amount
of sustained attention, of unceasing comparison, of calcula-
tion, of feeling, of reflection, necessary to obtain any result
Yes, yes, I know what you would say .... but you say
nothing at all, and I swear to you by Pincio's head (that
seems stupid to you ; it is not to me) — I swear that I will
become famous; I swear solemnly — by the Gospels, by the
passion of Christ, by myself — that in four years I will be
famous.
Sunday, April \Uh. — Poor grandpapa, he is interested
in everything, and suffers so much at not being able to
speak. I guess better than any one what he means ; he was
so happy this evening; I read the papers to him, and we
all chatted in his room.
I felt at the same time grieved, happy, and touched.
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PARIS, 1878. 311
And now human language cannot express my anger,
my rage, my despair
If I had been drawing ever since I was fifteen, I should
now be famous !
Do you understand ?
Saturday, April 20th. — Last night, locking up this note-
book, I opened the sixty-second one ; I read over some pages,
and chanced on A 's letter.
It made me dream long, and smile, and then dream
again. I went to bed late, Dut it was not lost time ; lost
moments like these don't come at will, but only when we
are young. We must know how to make use of them,
appreciate them, and enjoy them, like all God's gifts. The
young do not know how to appreciate youth rightly; but
I am like one who is old, who knows what each
thing is worth, and who wishes to lose no particle of
enjoyment.
On account of Robert Fleury I was unable to confess
before mass, which necessitates my putting off the communion
till to-morrow. The confession was singular ; here it is —
" You are not without sin," said the priest, after the usual
prayer. " Are you not given to idleness ? "
" Never."
" To pride ? "
" Always."
" Do you keep the fast days ? "
" Never."
" Have you offended any one ? "
" I don t think so, but it may be, perhaps, by trifles, my
father, but nothing serious."
" May God forgive you, my daughter," &c.
I am self-possessed ; I proved it to-night by talking
without jesting. I am calm, and have absolutely no fear,
moral or physical . . . Often I say : " I was horribly afraid
of going to some place, or of doing something." It is an
exaggeration of speech common to almost everybody, which
means nothing. What pleases me is that I am getting into
the habit of speaking to everybody ; it is essential if one
wishes to have a good salon. Formerly, I used to speak to one
person only, and take no notice, or hardly any, of the rest.
Saturday, April 27th — Sunday, April 28th. — I had the
mad idea of lettmg them ask men to the midnight mass in
our church.
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312 MARIE BASHKTRTSEFF.
On the right stood the ambassador, the Duke of
Leuchtenbere, and his wife, Madame Akentieffi The duke is
the son of tne Grand Duchess Marie, who died at Florence,
and is a nephew of the Emperor.
The couple were at Rome when I was there, and Madame
Akenfieff was not received at the Embassy. Now she plays
the part of Grand Duchess to perfection ; she is still a
beautiful woman, and very stately, though very thin. Well,
the husband is still full of delicate attention to his wife ; it
is admirable and quite charming.
The Embassy gave an Easter supper, which took place after
mass, two hours after midnight, in the house of the priest,
which, being quite near the church, was chosen for the occasion.
But it was the ambassador who sent out the invitations,
and who received ; so that we had the good fortune to be at
the same table with the Grand Duke, his wife, the ambassador,
and the best Russian society in Paris.
I was dull, and yet not vexed on the whole, for it will
send me back to my work with new ardour.
Why does not Prince Orloff, who is a widower, fall in love
with and marry me ? I should then be ambassadress in
Paris, almost empress. Did not M. Anitchkofl', who was am-
bassador at Teheran, marry a young girl for love when he
was over fifty-five ?
I did not produce all the effect I wished. Laferrifcre came
late, and I was obliged to put on a dress that fitted badly.
I had to improvise a chemisette ; it was a low-necked dress,
and had to oe altered. On my dress depended my temper ;
on my temper, my manner and the expression of my face —
everything, m fact
Monday, April 29£A. — At work from eight in the morning
to six in the evening, from which you must deduct an hour
and a half for going out to lunch ; tnere is nothing so good as
regular work.
To change the subject, I must tell you that I believe I
shall never be seriously in love. I always discover something
comical in the man, and then all is over. If he does not
seem ridiculous, he is awkward, or stupid, or tiresome. In
short, there is always a something that discovers the ass
beneath the lion's skin.
It is true that until I find my master I shall not let
mvself be caught by any charm. Thank heaven, the mania
I have of finding out people's faults will prevent my falling in
love with one and all of tne Adonises on earth ! . , ,
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PA&IS, 1878. 313
How silly the people are who go to the Bois, and how
unable I am to understand their empty stupid existence !
Friday, May 3rd. — There are moments when one would
throw up everything — the intellectual whirl, glory, and paint-
ing—in order to go and live in Italy, to live on sunshine, and
music, and love.
Saturday, May Aith. — I love everything simple — in paint-
ing, in feeling, &c. — everything. My feelings have never been
simple, and never can be, for simple feelings cannot exist
where there are doubts and fears founded on previous experi-
ence. Simple feelings can exist only in complete happiness,
or in the country, when one is ignorant of all those things
which ....
I am essentially of a hair-splitting character, as much
through an excess of delicate perception as through self-
esteem, a desire to analyse and to seek for the truth, through
fear of following a wrong track or of a failure.
Well, when neart and mind are tormented with all these
things, you attain only results which show fatigue ; they may
be violent, but are at the same time subject to strange and
sudden changes, to ups and downs — in fact, an absolute and
tormenting want of balance; yet on the whole this is
preferable to an absolute evenness, which, as every one says,
is wearisome. This evenness excludes those extremely delicate
shades which give supreme pleasure to those finely organised,
hair-splitting natures who require subtlety even in what is
great — nay, sublime, and without which you can never
obtain such powerful and many-coloured effects ....
You would think I knew something about it ; I know only
that I write down my fancies, and steal my ideas from
no one.
Sunday, May 5th. — I have been seven months at the
studio.
I went again to the exhibition with Anna Noggren. We
went through it, only glancing at everything, with the ex-
ception of the pictures, which were the only things that really
interested us.
I was very much surprised at the portrait of Don Carlos,
which is badly drawn, false in colour, and not like. As for
the famous portrait of M. Thiers, I had not seen it at the
Salon, and saw it for the first time to-day ; but I feel sure that
it has darkened in colour.
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314 MABIE BA8HKIBTSEFF.
Carolus Duran I like best of all, for the life in his
work ; and Bonnat for his skill
Bonnat's hands are marvellous.
Tuesday, May 9tk — I might have had a delicious hand if
my fingers had not been shamefully spoilt by stringed
instruments, and if I did not bite my nails. But the celestial
instruments would not matter if I had decent nails.
My body like that of an antiaue goddess, my Spanish-
looking hips, my small and perfectly-shaped bosom, my feet,
my hands, and ray childlike nead — of what use is it all, since
nobody loves me ?
Poor Pincio and poor Walitzky ! I thought of them
to-day.
Safatrday, May 11th. — Schaeppi, aunt Marie, and I went
to the exhibition to see the pictures and admire Don Carlos,
who is the most magnificent and royal of men I have ever
seen. He surpasses in distinction our Grand Dukes and our
Emperor.
Dress him as you like, place him where you will, every one
will ask, Who is that man ?
It is impossible to conceal good birth ; and when men of
birth are ugly, or do not show their breeding, it is, jrou may
be sure, that there is something shady about their origin. It
is impossible to be more kingly, more dignified, more natural,
than Don Carlos. If that man were as intelligent as any one
else, it would be too much. He is not quite a fool, but ne is
asleep.
Sunday, May 12th. — I have painted my first study of still-
life — a vase of blue porcelain with a bunch of violets, and a
little shabby red book at the side, on a canvas, No. 3. In this
way I shaft go on with my drawing, and get used to the
colours, by working two or three hours on a Sunday. Every
Sunday I shall do something different
Yesterday I was rude to my mother. Afterwards I went
back to my little drawing-room, where it was dark, and,
kneeling down, I took an oath before God that I would
never answer my mother sharply again ; and if she provoked
me, that I would hold nvy peace, or go out of the room.
She is very ill ; a misfortune soon happens, and I should
never console myself for having behaved badly towards her.
Monday , May 13th. — For the afternoon places they drew
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PARIS, 1878. 315
lots ; the first fell to me, and as I had not yet come, the next
girl took my place.
Then I came in, and Breslau told me that I must be the
last, having lost my place. Such a thing was never, never
done before. You left the person in your place, and sat just
behind her, but were never sent right to the back. Although
that may be the rule, I made them ask M. Julian about it.
M. Julian replied that the rule certainly existed, but that it
had never been enforced, and that he thought it shameful to
have played me such a trick. I left in a rage," but came back
to say tnat my absence would give only too much pleasure
to a lot of stupid jealous girls.
The Spanish girl came up to try and calm me, because I
threatened to leave the studio ; the maid also came and said
consoling things. But I answered them that they need not
be afraid; I snould certainly work, and that I should be
very silly to waste my time, as that was just what would
please the others. It wanted twenty-five minutes to the
hour.
" They have succeeded/ 1 said I, " in making me lose an
hour, from one till two, but I shall employ these twenty-five
minutes in calming myself, so as to be able to draw well, and
to enrage those wretched creatures who have recourse to such
petty tricks out of jealousy." For those twenty-five minutes
I led them a life!
Thursday, May I6tk — While I was preparing to paint my
death's head, having after my usual fashion neralded my
project with trumpets and drums, Breslau has this week
painted one. That will teach me not to chatter so much.
Talking it over with the others, I said that really my ideas
must oe worth something, since there are people foolish
enough to take up the worst of my chance suggestions.
Friday, May 17th. — I could become a communarde,
just for the pleasure of blowing-up all the houses and
destroying the nomes.
One ought to love one's home. There is nothing
sweeter than to rest there, to dream of the things one has
done, and the people one has seen . . . But to rest
eternally! .
The days from eight till six pass somehow or another
in working, but the evenings !
I mean to model in the evening ... in order not to
think that I am young, that time is passing, that I am
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316 MARIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
bored to death, and disgusted, and that everything is
horrible !
How strange it is, though, that some people have no
luck, either in love or in the business of life, in love, it is
my own fault. I took wild fancies to some, and forsook
others . . . But in practical things !
I shall now weep, and pray to God to settle this matter
for me. It is a very original idea to talk to the bo n Diew,
but it does not make Him any kinder to me.
Others do not know how to ask. As for me, / have
faith ; I supplicate . . .
Doubtless, I have no merit,
I believe that I am soon to die.
Tltursday, May 23rd. — I have begun to paint two
oranges and a knife, at the studio. Since I have broken with
Breslau, I am polite to the Spanish girl, who is the most
obliging creature, putting herself out for me, arranging my
still-life, and giving me advice.
One does not work as well in spring-time as in winter.
Saturday, May 25th. — " That is not getting on well enough
for you," said Robert Fleury.
1 felt it myself; and if he had not been encouraging about
my still-life studies, I should have fallen from the height of
my hopes — and this would have been serioua
We went to the Fran9ais to see Les Fourchambaidt.
The piece is very much admired, but I am not in love
with it
I had a hat .... but that no longer interests me. What
I want is to have an air of distinction. I had not been think-
ing of it much lately. Decidedly I am to be a great artist
. . . Every time I leave my work I am sent back to it by
stinging blows of every kind.
Have I not had visions of political salons, then of the
world, then of a rich marriage, and again of politics ?
All that was at the time when I dreamed of, when I hoped
for, the possibility of some natural, human, feminine arrange-
ment of my life; but no, nothing. This constant, imper-
turbable, astounding ill-luck does not even make me laugh
any more.
It has given me great coolness, an immense contempt
for every one, reasoning power, wisdom, and a number of
qualities which go to make up a character which, while
being cold, disdainful, and callous, is at the same time active,
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PARTS, 1878. 317
brusque, and energetic. As for the sacred fire, it is hidden,
and the vulgar onlookers, the profane, do not even suspect it
They think I care not a straw for anything. I am without
heart ; I criticise, despise, and mock.
And all the more tender feelings thrown back into my
inmost self, what do they say of tnis haughty assumption ?
They say nothing; they murmur, and hide themselves ever
deeper, both hurt and grieved.
I pass my life in saying wild things, which please me and
astonish others. . . . There would be no harm if one did not
take a bitter tone, if it were not the outcome of this in-
conceivable ill-luck in everything.
For instance, when I made my famous request to the bon
Dieu, the priest gave me the bread and the wine, which
I took, and then the piece of bread without the wine, accord-
ing to custom. This bread fell twice from my handa It
pamed me, but I said nothing, hoping that it did not mean a
refusal.
It appears, however, that it did.
All tnis proves to me that there remains my art, to which
I must devote my life. ... No doubt I shall again leave it
for other things by tits and starts, but for a few hours only,
after which I snail return chastened and wiser.
Monday, May 27th. — I got to the studio before seven, and
went with the Swedish girls to have breakfast for three sous
at a crSmerie. I saw the workmen, the gamins in their
blouses, come to drink their poor cup of chocolate, just like
the one I myself had taken.
" For you, Mademoiselle, to commence painting by still-life
studies is just as if a strong man were ordered to take exercise
by handling this " (and Julian raised and lowered his pen-
holder). "I agree that you should not do the face, but
paint feet, bits from the life; there is nothing better than
that"
He is perfectly right, and I am going to paint a foot
I luncned at the studio ; they brought me something from
home, for I calculated that by going home to lunch I lost an
hour every day, which makes six nours or one day a week,
four days a month, forty-eight days a year.
As for the evenings ... I want to do some sculpture ; I
spoke about it to Julian, who will mention it to Dubois, or
get it mentioned to him, so that he may feel interested in
me.
I had given myself four years ; seven months have already
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318 MARIS BASHKIRTSEFF.
passed I think three years will be enough ; that leaves me
still two years and five months.
I shall then be between twenty and twenty-one.
Julian says that in a twelvemonth I shall paint very well ;
that may be, but not well enough.
" This way of working is not natural," he said, laughing.
" You give up society, walks, and drives — everything, in fact
There must be some purpose, some secret idea beneath
this."
He is not a Southerner for nothing.
To-day something happened almost like my quarrel
with the Swiss girl, only I played Breslau's part, and an old
lady mine.
" Madame," I said, so as to be heard, "lam in my right,
and I might keep this place if I were in the habit of causing
annoyance to well-bred people. Take it, Madame ; by the
rules of courtesy it is yours. Thank God I have been well
brought up, and have nothing in common with certain
animals (excuse the term) who do not know how to behave."
And as the poor old lady would not accept it, I added : " Take
it, I beg of you, Madame ; I give it no more for your sake than
to glorify myself. I do this noble deed because I respect
mysel£"
That was my vengeance, although it was half chaff.
Thursday, May 30tk, — Generally their relatives and sur-
roundings do not believe in the genius of great men .... At
home they over-estimate my abilities, so that they would not
be astonisned if I were to paint as great a picture as the Raft
of the Medusa, and if I were to receive the cross of the Legion
of Honour. Is it a bad sign ? I hope not
Friday, May 31s£. — My people went to see &fderie at the
Ch&telet ; I went with them. When you have seen one, you
have seen alL I was bored ; and whilst looking mechanically
at the advertisements on the curtain, I was thinking that my
life has lost its brightness, is faded, and . . . done for. It is
a pity to feel such a blank, such desolation around onesel£
As a matter of fact ... I understand it now. I fancied that
I was born to be happy in everything ; now I see that I am
unhappy in everything ; it is exactly the same thing, only that
it is just the opposite. From the moment I have known what
to expect, it is quite bearable, and it grieves me no longer,
since I am prepared.
I assure ydu I say what I really think What was
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PARIS, 1878. 319
awful, was the constant disillusion. To meet with serpents
where you expected to find flowers ! 'tis horrible ; but these
shocks have educated me into indifference. Everything
goes on around me, I don't even look out of the carriage
window as I go to the studio.
I close my eyes, or read the paper.
You think perhaps that this resignation is desperate.
.... It is caused by despair, but it is calm and gentle, if
sad.
Instead of being rose-colour, everything is grey ; that is
all. You make up your mind to it, and feel calm. I don't
know myself any more. It is not a passing mood, but
that is what I have become. It seems strange to me, but
it is none the less true. I don't even need money, only
a couple of black blouses a year ; linen which I could wash
on Sundays for the week; very simple food, as long as
there are no onions in it, and it is fresh; and .... the
possibility of working.
No carriages to ride in, the omnibus or my feet ; 1 wear
shoes without heels at the studio.
Why live then ? Why ? Eh ! parbleu I in the hope of
better days, and this hope never leaves us.
Everything is relative. For instance, compared with
my past anxieties, the present is ease of mind itself. I
enjoy it as I should an agreeable event In January I
shall be nineteen. Moussia will be nineteen! It seems
absurd and impossible. It is fearful
At times I am seized with a desire to dress, to go out,
to show myself at the Opera, the Bois, the Salon, the Ex-
hibition. But then I say to myself directly, What is the
use? And it all comes to nothing.
Between every two words I write I think of a million
things ; I express my thoughts only by fragments.
What a misfortune for posterity!
No, it is not a misfortune for posterity, but it prevents
me from making myself understood.
I am jealous of Breslau, who does not draw at all like
a woman.
Next week I shall work so hard, you will see ! ... .
My afternoons will be devoted to the exhibition and the
Salon.
But the week after next ... I mean to draw well,
and I will
Monday, June 3rd, — A sleepless night! Work from
w
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320 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
eight in the morning, and going about from two till seven
in the evening, to the Salon, to look for a house, &c.
And of what use is this wonderful health of mine ?
this energy which spends itself and accomplishes nothing ?
I work ... Oh yes, to be sure ! A miserable seven
or eight hours a day, which have no more effect on me
than seven or eight minutes.
We went to see a beautiful studio. I trembled with
delight goiijg through it ; for even the sight of a large
well-lighted studio makes you believe that you will accom-
plish great things.
To-morrow I will tell you in earnest my true opinion,
my inmost thoughts, formed neither by other people nor
by my surroundings. I will even tell you to-nignt!
In my heart, my soul, my mind, I am republican.
The old titles Kept up ; equality before the law ; all
other equality is impossible. Respect for families of ancient
lineage; honour to foreign princes. Protection for the arts;
luxury and elegance.
These dynasties, these Ministers who take root and
then rot as they stand, infest a country. This court
favour ! There lies the misfortune, there the ruin ! Whereas
the constant renewal and change of the chief of the
State, a frequent clean sweep of tne Ministers, the officials
well exposed to the breezes of public opinion — that is
what is needed. Things like this make a country fresh and
healthy, and consequently capable of anything if it possesses
intelligence; and that will never be wanting to the
French.
People reproach the Republic with bloodshed, infamous
deeds, and a thousand other things. Que diable ! Look at
the beginnings of anything, especially when half the people
do nothing but spoil, hinder, and oppose. Several attempts
failed. There was the Napoleonic tradition ; there was Saint
Helena.
And now, what do we find? That sterile M. de
Chambord, and after him the Orleans princes. The
D'Orl^ans are not to my taste. One is not fond of de-
graded bastard things. As for Napoleon III., he destroyed
the chances of his house for ever and a day. The present
Republic is the true one — the one so long waited ior, the
crowning benediction of Heaven come at last
What matter the few freethinkers who are to be found
under all regimes ? WTiat matter extravagant ideas ? The
country is not a drawing-room!
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PARIS, 1878. 321
Let party men choose their guests ; but the Republic is no
party. She is the country as a whole ; and as more and more
of her children rally to her, she will open her arms ever wider ;
and when all shall have come, there will be none proscribed,
neglected or favoured, and political parties will have ceased to
exist. But France will be living.
For the moment, the Republic has too much to do to
think of individuals.
It is criminal, they say, for the Republicans to have black
sheep in their ranka Yet what nation is without them ?
If all France were to become legitimist or imperialist,
would they then become pure and without reproach ?
Good-night ! I am almost talking nonsense, through
hurrying on so fast
Wednesday, June 12th. — To-morrow I take up again my
work, neglected since Saturday ; I feel remorseful, and to-
morrow everything shall go on as usual. The evening will be
enough for my own affairs.
M. Rouher surprised me in several ways. Firstly, by his
youthfulness — I had imagined him grave, slow, and decrepit,
and saw him jump from the cab, offer his arm, pay the
cabman, and run up the steps; and then by his ideas — a
half education, he says, leads to the absolute denial of all
authority. He proclaims the benefits of ignorance (although
he says it is a puzzling question), and asserts that news-
papers are poison, scattered broadcast on to the public
streets.
You may imagine with what curiosity I looked at him
and listened to the man who had been Vice-Emperor !
But I need not here give you my judgment — firstly,
because I have not seen him enough, and, secondly, because I
don't feel inclined to do so to-night He gave us several
interesting details, with which he is in a position to be
perfectly acquainted, concerning the attempt on our Em-
peror in 1867, and then about the Imperial family, and
ne asked me if we knew the Prince Imperial. As you
may imagine, I was orthodox with the master of the Bona-
partists.
I am even surprised at my delicate flattery and tact.
Gavini and the Baron seemed to approve me completely, and
M. Rouher himself was pleased, but .... what a display of
damp fireworks!
They spoke of votes, laws, pamphlets, faithful followers,
traitors, before me. Did I listen? Oh, I should think so
w 2
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$22 Marie BASHXmtstiFf 1 .
It was like a door opening into Paradise. And yet I have
said that women should meddle with nothing, being only
capable of doing harm, and not serious enough to stop short
of excess.
I am sorry that I am a woman, and M. Rouher, that he is
a man.
" Women," he said, " have not the worries and anxieties
that we have."
" Will you allow me to say, Monsieur, that we all have
them alike ? But the worries of men bring them distinction,
glory, and popularity ; whereas those of women bring them
nothing at alL '
" You believe, then, Mademoiselle, that we are always thus
rewarded ? "
" I believe, Monsieur, that it depends on the man."
You must not think that 1 attacked him just in that way,
suddenly. I remained at least ten minutes in a corner,
somewhat puzzled ; for the old fox looked by no means
delighted at my being introduced to him.
Would you like to know something ? I am delighted.
Now I feel inclined to tell you all the clever things I said,
but I must not I only tell you that I did my very best
not to talk commonplaces, ana to seem full of good sense,
and in this way I give you the best idea I can of what
happened.
Gavini said the Bonapartists were happy in having the
sympathy of pretty women, bowing towards me at the
same time.
" Monsieur," I replied, turning towards M. Rouher, " I give
my sympathies to your party not as a woman, but as a man,
and a man of principle."
Saturday, June 15th. — Only think ! Robert Fleury would
not say anything to me, my drawing was so bad. Then I
showed him the one of last week — and got praise for it, I am
thankful to say. There are days when everything fatigues
one.
Wednesday, Jxdy 3rd. — M came to bid us good-bye,
and, as it rained, he proposed to accompany us to the
exhibition.
We accepted ; but before going, while we were alone, he
begged of me not to be so cruel, &c. &c.
" You know that I am madly in love with you — that I
suffer. If you but knew how terrible it is to see nothing
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PARIS, 1878. 323
but mocking smiles, to hear nothing but chaff, when one is
truly in love!"
" You exaggerate your own feelings."
" Oh no ! I swear to you ! I am ready to give you
every proof . . . the most absolute devotion, the fidelity,
the patience of a dog! Only say one word — tell me that
you have some confidence m me. . . . Why do you
treat me as if I were a mountebank — a being of inferior
race ? "
" I treat you as I treat everybody."
" Why ? since you know that I love you as no one else
does — that I am aevoted to you heart and soul?"
"I generally do inspire feelings of this kind."
" But not like mine. Let me believe, at least, that you
have not towards me ... a feeling of repulsion."
" Repulsion ! Oh no ! not that, I assure you."
"But to me indifference is as terrible."
" ^ ! wel1 • • • "
"Promise me that you will not forget me during the
few months I shall be away."
"That is not in my power to do."
"Give me permission to remind you from time to time
of my existence. . . . Perhaps I shall amuse you, or
call up a smile. . . . Let me hope that sometimes, at
rare intervals, you will send me a word . . . only one
word."
" I beg your pardon ? "
" Oh ! without your signature — simply this : ' I am well/
Nothing more ; and it will make me so happy ! "
"1 sign everything I write, and I always honour my
signature."
" Then you do give me permission ? "
" I am like the Figaro, I am willing to receive any
correspondence."
"Good God! If you knew how terrible it is never to
obtain a serious word, to be for ever scoffed at! . . .
No, I entreat of you, be in earnest ; you would not have it
said that you did not take pity on me, even at the
moment of our parting. Will you not let me hope that
my unbounded devotion, my attachment, my love ? . . .
Impose on me any conditions, any proofs, you will; but
let me hope that one day you will be more . . . kind,
. . . That you will not always laugh ? "
" As for proofs," I said, rather seriously, " there is but
Qne,
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324 MARIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
" And that is ? I am ready and willing to accept
anything."
" Time."
" Time ? Be it so ; you will see."
" I shall be very happy."
" But, tell me, have you confidence in me ? "
" Confidence ? I have so much confidence in you that I
would trust you with a letter, and feel quite sure that you
would not open it"
"Dreadful idea! No, I mean absolute confidence."
"What great words!"
"And if the feeling is a great one?" he said, softly.
" I should be only too happy to believe it ; these tnings
flatter one's vanity. There, I consent to have a little con-
fidence in you."
"Really and truly?"
" Really and truly. And now you are satisfied, are you
not ? "
We went to the exhibition. I am out of patience because
M is happy, and pays his addresses to me as though
I had accepted him.
I have a sensation of real pleasure this evening ; the love
of M produces absolutely the same effect on me as did
that of A , so you see that I didn't care for Pietro.
I was not even in love with him ! 1 was but just on the
threshold of being in love ; but you know what a horrible
disenchantment it was. You can understand that I don't
intend to marry M .
" True love is always worthy of respect," I said to him ;
" vou need not be ashamed of it ; only don't get exaggerated
ideas about it."
" Your friendship ! "
" A vain word ! '
"Then your
" You are too exacting ! "
" But what am I to say, since you will not let me gain
your love little by little — since you refuse me your friend-
ship. . . .?"
" Pure illusion ! "
" Love, then ? "
"You have taken leave of your senses."
"Why?"
" Because I detest you."
Friday, JvXy 5th. — At the concert of the Russian gipsies
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PARIS, 1878. 325
I don't want to go away and leave a bad impression. We
were six — my aunt, Dina, fitienne, Philippini, M ,
and I. When the concert was over, we went to eat
ices, and called to our table the prettiest gipsies, and
two of the gipsy children, to whom we gave ices and
wine. It was quite amusing to talk to these girls,
who are all young and virtuous. They are well looked after.
Afterwards my aunt gave her arm to fitienne, Dina gave
hers to Philippini, and I mine to M . We walked home,
the weather Deing so fine. M , who had become calm,
spoke to me of his love. ... It is just as it was before ; I
don't love him, but his fire warms my heart. That is what
I mistook for love two years ago ! . . . .
He is eloquent The tears even came to his eyes. As
I came nearer home I did not laugh so much. I was
softened by the beauty of the night and this idyll of love.
Ah ! how sweet it is to be loved ! There is nothing in
the world so sweet. . . . Now I know that M does love
me. One cannot simulate like that. And if he loved
me for the sake of my money, he would have been dis-
heartened before now by my aisdain; and besides, there is
Dina, who is supposed to be as rich as I am ; and there are
many other marriageable girls. . . . M-; is not a beggar,
and he is a perfect gentleman. He might have found, and
he will find, some one else.
M is very nice ; I was perhaps wrong to leave my
hand in his at the moment of our parting. He kissed my
hand; I owed him that at least Besides, poor fellow, he
loves and respects me so much ! I auestionea him as if he
had been a child ; I wished to know how he came to love me,
and since when. It seems that he loved me from the first.
" But it is a peculiar love," he said. " Others are women for me,
but you are something apart from and above the rest of the
world. It is a strange feeling ; I know that you treat me as if
I were some hunchbacked clown ; I know that you are not
kind, that you have no heart, and still I love you. One
has always a certain admiration for the heart of the woman
one loves, and I .... I am not, so to speak, in sympathy
with you, although I adore you."
I continued to listen ; for I tell you, in real truth, words of
love are worth all the sights of the earth, except those to
which you go in order to be seen. But then it is still a kind
of song, a manifestation of love ! You are looked at, you are
admired, and you open out like a flower under the rays of the
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326 MARIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
Soden, Sundtiy, July 7th. — We left at seven. Grand-
papa wished me to stay, but I bid him good-bye ; then he
kissed me, and all at once he began to cry, his nose puckered,
his mouth opened, his eyes shut, iust like a child. Before his
illness, my love for him was nothing ; but now I adore him.
If you only knew what interest he shows in the smallest
things— how he loves us all since he has been in this terrible
conaition ! A moment more, and I should have remained.
.... What folly to be always so sensitive ! Fancy a person
transported from Paris to Soden. A deathly silence expresses
but feebly the quiet which reigns at Sodea I am stunned by
it, as one might be by a great noise.
Here there will be time for meditation and for writing.
What depressing stillness ! I hope you will be able to read
dissertations in plenty !
Dr. Til£nius has iust gone ; he asked me the necessary
questions about my illness, and did not say, like the French
doctors, " Well ! it will be nothing ; we shall make you well
again in a week, Mademoiselle/'
To-morrow I begin my cure.
The trees here are fine, the air is pure, the country suits
my face. In Paris I am only pretty, if I am even that ; here,
I look sweet and poetical, my eyes are larger, and my cheeks
thinner.
Soden, Tuesday, July 9th. — They bore me to death, these
doctors ! I had my throat examined ; pharyngitis, laryngitis,
and catarrh Only that ! .... I amuse myself bv read-
ing Livy, and taking notes in the evening. I intend doing it
every evening. I need to read Roman history.
Tuesday, July 16th. — I am determined to succeed, by my
painting, or by some other means, be it what it may ! Do not
imagine, however, that I have taken up art only from vanity.
There are perhaps few girls of so artistic a temperament
in everything as I am. You must have perceived it,
you who are the intelligent portion of my readers. For the
others I don't care a straw. They will only think that I am
extravagant, because I am strange in everything, though
involuntarily so.
Wednesday, July 2tth. — Dr. Tomachewsky, who is
physician to the Opera at St. Petersburg, must know some-
thing ; besides, his opinion coincides with that of Dr. Fauvel
and others ; and I myself, too, know that the Soden waters,
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SODEN, 1878. 327
by their chemical composition, are quite unsuited to my ill-
ness. If you are not ignorant, you must know that it is to
Soden that consumptive patients are sent.
Yesterday, at six in the morning, my aunt and I, accom-
Sanied by Dr. Tomachewsky, went to Ems to consult the
octors there.
We have now returned.
The Empress Eugenie is at Ems. Poor woman !
TJtursday, August 1st — I disguised myself as a queer-
looking old German woman, full of odd little ways; and
as every new arrival arouses intense interest amongst the
frequenters of the Kurhaus I created quite a sensation.
But I committed the imprudence of not ordering any-
thing from the waiter, suspicion was aroused, I was followed,
pursued, and all was over.
I assure you, it is dull work to make five-and-twenty
persons split their sides with laughter without being amused
yourself
Friday, August 2nd. — I have been thinking of Nice
these last days. I was fifteen ; ah ! how pretty I was
then!
My figure, my feet, my hands, were perhaps unformed, but
my face was bewitching. It has never been so since. On
my return from Rome, Count Laurenti almost upbraided
me. . . .
" Your face has changed," he said to me ; " the features,
the complexion, are as they were before, but it is no longer the
same. . . . You will never again be as you are in this
portrait."
He spoke of the j>ortrait in which I was leaning my
elbows on the table, with my cheek resting on my hands.
"You seem to have come into the room, to have leant
your head on your hands, and with your eyes looking out
mto the future, to be saying to yourself, half in terror,
'And is this life ? ' "
When I was fifteen there was something childlike in my
face, which was there neither before nor after 1 was fifteen ;
and that expression is the most bewitching one in the
world.
I have discovered some walks in Soden. ... I do not
mean the usual paths up which every visitor thinks himself
obliged to climb, put alleys and woods where one sees no one
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328 MARIE BA8HKIET8EFF.
I love this quiet. Paris or else the desert for me ! I do not
speak of Rome ; it would make me cry directly.
Old Livy tells his story so well ; and when in a certain
passage you feel that he masks a defeat, or excuses a humilia-
tion, it is almost touching. I tell you Rome has, as yet, been
my only love.
Imagine my delight when I hear the ladies talk of their
nerves, their acquaintances, their doctors, their dresses, their
children ! But 1 isolate myself; I go into the woods, or else I
shut my eyes, and then I am where I please.
Tuesday, August 6th. — My hat amuses me, and amuses
Soden. I bought of the woman who serves out glasses of
water at the springs a blue woollen stocking she nad iust
commenced ; at the same time she showed me how to work it
I at once took up both idea and stocking, and sat down, with
Mme. Dutine, in front of the hotel windows to knit the
stocking, whilst my aunt and the others went for a walk, I
know not in what direction.
A change has come over me. I have become calm, very
quiet, and gentle ; I am becoming German ; I knit stockings
— or, rather, a stocking, which will last for ever, because
I do not know how to do the heel. I shall never do
it, and the stocking will grow longer, and longer, and
longer
It will not even be long".
It is pouring. My wit is boundless. Sweet Germany !
My walks do me good. I read, and do not lose my tima
Ye sages, glorify me !
Wednesday, August 7th. — Oh ! God grant that I may go
to Rome ! If you Knew, O God, how 1 long for it ! Show
to thy unwortny child a goodness beyond what she has
deserved. Oh ! grant that I may go to Rome .... it
is impossible doubtless, for that would be happiness! ....
It is not Livy who has given me these ideas, for my old
friend has been neglected for some days.
No, not Livy, but only the memory of the Campagna, the
Piazza di Popolo, the Pincio, and the Cupola in the setting
sun. . . .
And that divine adorable twilight of the dawn. When the
sun rises, and one begins to distinguish little by little ....
how empty and void are all other places ! . . . . And how
holy is the emotion called forth t>y the memory of the
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PARIS, 1878. 329
miraculous city so full of enchantment ! . . . . I think it is
not I alone, but every one whom she inspires with inexplicable
feelings, due to some mysterious influence .... some com-
bination of the fabulous past with the holy present, or else
.... I know not how to express it ... . If there were a
man I loved, my wish would be to lead him to Rome, and
there to tell him of my love in face of the sun as it sets behind
the divine Cupola. . . .
If I were struck down by some immense misfortune there,
I would go to weep and pray with my eyes lifted to that
cupola ; and if I should become the happiest of all mankind,
then also would I eo there ...
How flat and bourgeois to think that one lives in Paris
.... and yet it is the only city in the world possible, after
Rome.
Paris, Saturday, August 17 tk — This morning we were
still at Soden.
I had vowed that I would prostrate myself to the ground
five hundred times if I found grandpapa alive ; I have ful-
filled my promise. He is not dead, but it is almost as bad ;
all the same . . . my cure at Ems is a failure.
I hate Paris! one can be happier, more contented, and
satisfied there than elsewhere. In Paris life may be more
complete, more intellectual, more glorious — I am far from
denying it — but for the life I lead one needs to love the
town itself. Towns, like persons, are either sympathetic,
or antipathetic to me; and I cannot make myself like
Paris.
Monday, August 19th. — Mile. E , who was governess
at Madame AnitzkofFs, is now with us, and will be a kind of
governess.
I shall show her great respect when I go out shopping, so
that she may be treated with respect, for she herself is not im-
posing, being short, carroty, young, and sad-looking ; a round
face, like the moon when the moon is dull. The effect of
her face is to make one laugh ; her eyes full of a comical
dreaminess; but with the kind of hat I have thought of
she will do, and 1 shall go to the studio with her.
I console myself for having left Ems, when I see how
happy grandpapa is to see me again, dying as he is.
I nave a terrible disease ; / am disgusted with myself.
It is not the first time that I have felt I hated myself, but
that does not make it less terrible.
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330 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
To hate another person whom you can avoid is one thing,
but to hate yourself, that is indeed torture.
Saturday, August 24>th. — I spent an hour in making a
sketch of grandpapa lying down; it is on a canvas No. 3.
They say it is very good ; but you know those white pillows,
the white shirt, the white hair, and half-closed eyes, are any-
thing but easy to paint
Of course I did only the head and shoulders.
I am glad to have this remembrance of him.
The day after to-morrow I shall go the studio, so as to feel
less impatient ; I cleaned my paint uoxes, sorted my colours,
and cut my charcoal During the week I have done all I had
to do in the way of business.
Thursday, August 29th. — I don't know by what act of
providence I was late. At nine o'clock I was not yet
dressed, when some one came to tell me that grandpapa
was worse. I dressed, and went to see him several times.
Mamma, Aunt, and Dina, were crying. M. G came in and
out as he liked. I said nothing to him. It is no use
preaching at such a terrible time. At ten the priest came,
and in a few minutes all was over.
I remained on my knees with him to the end, passing
my hand over his poor forehead, or feeling his pulse. I
saw him die. Poor dear grandpapa, after so mucn suffer-
ing ! I do not like to utter commonplaces. During the
religious service which was held by his oedside mamma fell
into my arms. They had to carry her away, and put her
to bed in her room. Every one wept aloud, even Isicholas.
I cried, too, but silently. He had been laid on his bed,
which was ill-arranged. These servants are abominable.
They show a zeal which hurts me. I myself arranged the
pillows, covering them with fine cambric, trimmed with lace,
and draped a snawl round the bed he loved — an iron one —
which would seem poor to other people. All round I put
white muslin. White becomes tne goodness of the soul
which has taken its flight, the purity of the heart which
has ceased to beat. I touched nis forehead when it was
already cold, and felt neither fear nor disgust The blow
was expected, yet one is stunned when it talk.
I wrote out the telegrams and announcement of the
funeral And I also had to take care of mamma, who had
a violent fit of hysterica I think my behaviour was
quite what it should have been. And I do not think
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PARIS, 1878. 331
because I didn't cry aloud that I have less feeling than
the others.
I can no longer distinguish my dreams from my real
feelings.
They had to send for mourning dressmakers, &c. My
family are capable of dispensing altogether with the out-
ward show of mourning ; they will not understand that the
world does not take into account the mourning of the
soul, and that in their eyes the more crape you display the
more convincingly you prove yourself to oe a good mother,
a good daughter, or an inconsolable widow, as the case
may be.
The atmosphere is filled with a fearful mingling of the
smell of flowers, of earth and incense. It is hot, and they
have closed the shutters.
At two o'clock I began the portrait of my poor dead
grandfather, but the sun came into the room at four, so I
had to stop, and it will only be a sketch.
I do not know how everything should be done, but I
try instinctively to conform absolutely to etiquette, although
I have a heart.
Every moment I open this book, to set down what
happens.
Friday, August SOtJi. — Real life is a hateful and tire-
some dream. . . Yet, how happy I might be with just a
little happiness. I possess in the highest degree the art of
making a little go a long way, and I am not affected by
what affects other people.
Sunday, September 1st. — And 1 see nothing for me ....
nothing but painting. If I were to become a great painter, it
would be a divine compensation ; I should have the right,
before my own conscience, of having feelings and opinions of
my own. I should not despise myself for writing down all
these trifles. I should be somebody. ... I might have been
nothing, and should be happy in being nothing but the be-
loved of a man who would oe my glory. . . . But now I
must be somebody by my own effort.
Wednesday, September Uh. — Kant declares that things
exist only by our imagination. That is going too far ; but
I admit his doctrine in so far as feeling is concerned. As a
matter of fact, feelings are produced by the impression made
on one, either by objects or living beings ; and since he says
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332 MARIS BA8HKIRTSEFF.
that different objects are what they are, only in our mind — in
a word, have no objective value or reality except in our
mind . . . but a person who is in a hurry to get to bed
and who has to calculate by what hour she must begin
her drawing so as to have it finished by Saturday, cannot
hope to reason out all that.
In ordinary language, imagination is other than what
I mean by it ; people say imagination when they mean folly,
or nonsense ; were it not for that. . . . Can love exist
otherwise than in the imagination? And it is the same
with every other sentiment You see, all this edifice of
philosophy is admirable, but a mere woman like myself
can show it to be false.
You say that things possess reality only in our minds?
Well, I tell you that the object strikes your sight, and the
sound your hearing, and tnat these — let us say things
— determine everything. If it were otherwise, things would
not need to exist, we should invent everything. If nothing
exists in this world, where does anything exist ? For to be
able to affirm that nothing exists, you must know of the
real existence of something, no matter where it be, if it were
only to account for the difference between what is objective
ana what is imtvginary.
Of course .... the inhabitants of another planet may
have a different way of looking at things from ours, and in
this case it is quite true. But we are on the earth, let us
remain there, and study what is above or below us, and that is
quite enough.
I become enthusiastic about these learned, patiently worked-
out, extraordinary, amazing follies ; these learned and logical
arguments and deductions. . . . There is only one thing that
makes me unhappy ; it is that I feel that it is all false, and
that I have neither the time nor the will to find out why
it is so.
I should like to talk it all over with some one — I am very
lonely. But I assure you that I do not wish to force my
opinions on others. I tell my ideas naively, and I would
readily yield to any fifood reasons that were offered to me. I
ought, and I should Tike, without making myself ridiculous by
excessive pretensions, to hear learned men speak; I should
like, you cannot tell how much, to obtain admittance into the
worm of letters and science, to see, to listen, to learn. . . .
But I do not know whom nor how to ask for what I want, and
there I remain, stupefied, wonderstruck, not knowing into
what study to throw myself, and catching glimpses on every
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PARIS, 1878. 333
side of treasures of interesting knowledge — history, languages,
science, the whole earth, in fine .... I wish that 1 could
take in the whole world at a glance, and learn and know
everything.
Friday, September 13th. — I am not in my right place in
the world. I waste in idle talk energy enough for the making
of a man. I make set speeches to express my feelings about
domestic and absolutely trifling annoyances. I am nothing,
and the capabilities which might have developed into real
qualities are nearly always wasted or misapplied.
There are big statues which are admirable on a pedestal in
the middle of a large square, but place one of them in your
room, and you will see how stupid it is, and how much in the
way ! You will knock your head and your elbows against it
ten times a day, and at last you will curse and find unbearable
that which, if it were in its right place, every one would
admire.
If you find that the " statue " is too flattering an image
for me, well, I am content to let it be . . . whatever you like.
Saturday, September 21s£. — I have received both praise,
compliments, and encouragements. Breslau, who has returned
from the seaside, has brought back some studies of women
and heads of fishermen.
The colouring is charming, and poor A , who consoled
herself formerly by saying that Breslau was no colourist,
looked quite crestfallen. Breslau will be a great artist, a truly
freat artist, and if you but knew how severely I judge, and
ow I despise the pretensions of these females, and their
adoration for R- , because, so it seems, he is handsome, you
would understand that I do not fall into ecstasies about
nothing; besides, when you read these lines the prediction
will be fulfilled.
I must force myself to draw from memory, otherwise I
shall never be able to do compositions. Breslau is always
making rough drawings, sketches, doing all kinds of things.
She had already been doing them for two years before sne
came to the studio, and she has now been there two years and
more. She came about June, 1876, just when I was wasting
my time in Russia . . . Oh, misery ! !
Monday, September 23rd— Julian came to tell me that M.
Robert Fleury is very pleased with me ; and filing back over
everything I have done, he thinks that considering the short
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334 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
time I have been working I have done wonderfully well ; that
he has, in fact, great hopes of me, and thinks that I shall
certainly bring him great credit.
It is stupid to write every day, when there's nothing
to sav. I bought a wolf-skin in the Ilussian section for a rug.
Pincio the Second is terribly afraid of it
Shall I really become a painter ? The fact is that I only
leave the studio to read the illustrated Roman Histories, with
notes, maps, texts, and translations.
That is also stupid ; nobody is interested in these things,
and my conversation would be more brilliant if I read some-
thing more modern. Who cares for early institutions, or for
the number of citizens who lived under the reign of Tullus
Hostilius, for the sacred rites of Numa Pompflius, or the
struggles between the tribunes and the consuls ?
Duruy's great History, which is appearing in numbers, is a
treasure.
When I have finished Livy, I shall read Michelet's His-
tory of France, and then I shall read the Greek authors
whom I only know by hearsay, and from quotations in other
books ; and after that . . . My books are packed up in boxes
and we must take an apartment in which we are more
likely to remain than this one, before I unpack them.
I have read Aristophanes, Plutarch, Herodotus, a little of
Xenophon, and I think that is all. Epictetus too, but it
really is not enough. And then there is Homer, whom I
know very well, and Plato, whom I know just a little.
Friday, September 27th. — Very often, and in all circles,
people discuss the mutual wrongs of men and women,
exerting themselves to prove the one or the other to be the
more guilty. Must I then interfere to enlighten the poor
denizens of this earth ?
Man has to a certain extent the initiative in nearly
everything, and so must be looked upon as the more guilty,
without being on that account worse than the woman, who,
since she is, so to speak, condemned to be passive, escapes
a certain amount of responsibility, but is not, on that account,
better than the man.
Saturday, Sejriember 28th. — Robert Fleury was again
pleased with me and asked me if I had done any painting.
" No, Monsieur."
" Ah, Mademoiselle, that was not right ; you know that
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PARIS, 1878. 335
it was agreed that you should. You will be really culpable
if you do not work a great deal "
And if you knew how sparing he is in his praise, a
"not bad" is a great deal to obtain from him, ana I have
had " good" " well done" " very well done ! "
Monday, September 30th. — I have done my first regular
painting. I was to do still-life studies, so I painted, as you
already know, a blue vase and two oranges, and afterwards
a man's foot, and that is all.
I dispensed with the drawing from the antique; I shall
perhaps oe able to do without the work from still-life.
I have written to Colignon that I should like to be a
man. I know that I could be somebody, but with petti-
coats what do you expect one to do ? Marriage is the only
career for women ; men have thirty-six chances, women
only one, as with the bank of the gaming table, but, never-
theless, the bank is always sure to win ; thev say it is
the same with women, but it is not so, for there is win-
ning and winning. But how can one ever be too particular
in the choice of a husband ? I have never before felt so
indignant at the present condition of women. I am not
mad enough to claim that stupid equality which is an
Utopian idea — besides, it is bad form — for there can be no
equality between two creatures so different as man and
woman. I do not demand anything, for woman already
possesses all that she ought to have, but I grumble at
being a woman because there is nothing of the woman
about me but the envelope.
Thursday , October 3rd. — To-day we remained for nearly
four hours at an international dramatic and musical nvdin&e.
They performed scenes from Aristophanes, in frightful cos-
tumes, and so abridged, so ill-arranged and altered that it
was simply hideous.
What was splendid was a dramatic recitation, Christopher
Columbus, given in Italian by Rossi : what a voice, what
intonation, what expression, what truth to nature! It was
finer than music. I think it would seem magnificent, even
to one who did not understand Italian.
While I listened to him I almost worshipped him. Ah !
how great the power that lies in speech, even when the words
are learnt by heart, even if it is not real eloquence. That fine
looking Mounet-Sully recited afterwards . . . but I will not
speak of him. Rossi's recitations are high art ; he has the
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336 MARIE BA8HKIBT8EFF.
soul of a great artist I saw him as he was leaving, talking
to two other men ; he is common. He is an actor ; but an
artist of his stamp must have a certain grandeur of
character even in everyday life. I saw by the look in his
eves that he could not be altogether an ordinary man, but
the charm exists only when he is speaking . . . Ah! but
then it is marvellous ... To think the Nihilists scoff at
all art!
What a terrible existence ! If I were clever, I should know
how to get out of this ; but then there is only some one's word
for it, and, moreover, that some one is myself Where have I
proved or shown my intellect ?
Satwrday, October 5th. — It was Robert Fleury's day to
correct our drawings at the studio. Well, I had such a
terrible fright ; he cried, " Oh ! oh ! Ah ! ah ! Oh ! oh ! " in
several different tones of voice, and then said —
" So you are going in for painting now ? "
"Not altogetner, Monsieur; I shall only paint once a
month ..."
"Never mind, you are right to begin; you may paint.
There's sometinff good too in your work."
" I was afraia I did not know enough to begin painting."
"On the contrary; you are quite advanced enough.
Continue ; this isn't bad at all — " &c. &c.
After this I had a long lesson, which proves that my case
is not hopeless, as they say at the studio. I am not liked there,
and whenever I have some poor little success, B gives me
a furious look, quite laughable to see.
But Robert Fleury will not believe that I have never
learnt painting.
He remained a long while, correcting, chatting, and
smoking, just as if he were Carolus.
He gave several extra pieces of advice, and then asked me
what place I had had at the last competition of last year.
And when I told him that I was second . . .
" And this year," he said, " you must . . . H'm !"
It is so absurd ; he has already told Julian that he thought
I should get a medal
At last, without any difficulty, I have the permission to
paint from life, without having done still-life studies ; I pass
them over as I passed over the antique.
Monday, October *7th. — Stupid people will say that I
want to be the successor of Balzac — it is not so ; but do
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PARIS, 1878. 337
you know the secret of his great power ? It is that he pours
out on paper all that his mind conceives, quite naturally,
without fear or affectation. Nearly all people of intelligence
have thought what he has known how to write down ;
but who could have expressed their thoughts as he does?
The same faculty given to any other mind would certainly
have produced a very different result
No ! Nearly all people have not had these thoughts, but
in reading Balzac, his truth and fidelity to nature have so
taken hold of them, that they fancy his thoughts already
existed in their own minds.
But as for me, a himdred times, while speaking or
thinking of some particular thing, I have been horribly tor-
mented by ideas tnat I felt to be in my mind, and that I
had not the power to unravel and extract from the frightful
chaos of my brain. I have also another belief with regard to
myself; I fancy that whenever I say anything clever, or make
some remark full of penetration, people will not under-
stand.
Perhaps, indeed, they may not understand it as it was
meant
Good night, good people !
Robert Fleury ana Julian build great hopes on me ; they
take care of me as if I were a horse which nad a chance of
winning the Grand Prix. Julian does nothing but intimate by
his gestures that the praise will spoil me ; but I assured him
that, on the contrary, it gave me great encouragement,
which is the truth.
Wednesday, October 9tL — The successes obtained at the
competition of the ficole des Beaux- Arts by Julian's pupils
have given his studio a good standing.
There are more students than enough. Each one ima-
gines he will get a Prix de Rome, or at least compete at
the 6cola
The ladies' studio shares in this distinction, and Robert
Fleury vies with Lefebvre and Boulanger. To everything,
Julian says — " What would they say of it down-stairs ? " or
else, " I should like to show that to the gentlemen below."
I long indeed for the honour of having a drawing of mine
shown down-stairs. You know they only send down the
drawings to show off what we can do, or to make them
furious, because they say that women are of no account For
some considerable tune I have been thinking of the honour of
having my work sent down,
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338 MARIE BASHKIBTSEFF.
Well ! To-day Julian entered the room, and after looking
at my study from the nude, he spoke thus : —
" Finish that well, and I will take it downstairs!'
Saturday, October \Zth. — My study from the nude was
thought very, very good.
" Ah ! you are really talented, and if you work you can
do what you like."
I am getting used to praise (I sav so for form's sake),
and the proof that R tells the trutn is that they all envy
me. And it is absurd that it should be so ; but it gives me
pain. There must be something in it for them to say such
things to me each time, especially when the person who says
them is a man as serious and conscientious as R .
As for Julian, he adds that if I knew all that was said
of me it would be enough to turn my head.
"You would be intoxicated with pride, Mademoiselle
Marie," said the maid.
I always fear that those who will read these lines will
think that people flatter me because I am rick That
makes no difference. I do not pay more than the others,
and the others have influential friends, or are related to
1)rofessors. Besides, when you read this diary there will no
onger be any doubt as to my merits. An ! I must at
least obtain compensation in that way.
It is gratifying to see the respect paid to one for
personal merit.
R begins to imitate Carolus. He comes and he
foes (he has received a grand medal at the Universal
Ixhibition) ; he stays to chat after he has corrected the
drawings, lights a cigarette, throws himself into an arm-chair.
All that 1 do not mind ; I know that he adores me as a
pupil, and so does Julian.
The other day the Swedish girl gave me some advice,
and so Julian called me into his private room, and told me
that I ought to follow my natural bent; that my painting,
would be at first weak, but that it would be ray oum,
"whereas if you listen to others, I will not answer for
what may happen."
He is willing for me to try my hand at sculpture, and
is going to ask Dubois to give me advice.
For the first time in Paris I enjoyed my drive. I was
dressed, my hair done. I looked neat, I had taken my time,
I had not hurried. And as Dina remained with mamma,
I had the place of honour.
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PARIS, 1878. 339
To ride with ray back to the horses is torture to me
instead of being a pleasure. Every Saturday I shall do the
same. It is so stupid to go to the Bois, however you go.
To-day I was myself again. I had some success, every one
looked at me.
I was in mourning, and wore a felt hat with feathers;
the whole effect being elegant, stylish, and simple.
Monday, October lUh. — "The whole place is crammed
down-stairs," said Julian ; " I will take down your study from
the nude; give it to me."
I know that these are only trifles, but still it is pleasant.
Wednesday, October \§iL — It is silly, yet it pains me to
see the envy of these women. It is so little-minded, so
shabby, so mean. I have never known what it is to be
envious of anybody. I merely regret not to be able to do
as well
I submit to superiority ; I am sorry for it, but I submit ;
whilst these creatures .... nothing but conversations
prepared beforehand, little smiles when they speak of a
certain person with whom the professor is pleased, things
said of another person, but meant for me, to prove that
studio successes signify nothing.
Finally, they have come to the conclusion that the
competitions are nothing but a farce, especially as Lefebvre
has Dad taste and only likes drawings stupidly copied from
life, and Robert Fleury is no colourist In snort, the
masters are incompetent, despite their celebrity ; such is
the dictum of the Spanish girl, Breslau, and Noggren. I
am quite of their opinion when they say that the studio
successes imply nothing at all, for there are two or three
specimens here who will for ever remain deplorable medio-
crities, and who yet p^ss for first-rate artists in the eyes
of the other students.
I am disliked by the students, but the masters are
pleased with me.
It is so amusing to hear these women say the very
reverse of what they said ten months ago, when they felt
sure of getting first medals. It is amusing because it is
one of those comedies which are played all tne world over,
but it irritates my nerves. Is it, perhaps, because after all I
have an honest nature?
These studio squabbles annoy and exasperate me in
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340 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
spite of all my reasoning. I am indeed impatient to leave
tnein behind me.
Sunday, October 20th. — I ordered the carriage for nine
o'clock, and, accompanied by my maid of honour, Mile.
Elsnitz, I went to see Saint - Philippe, Saint - Thomas
d'Aquin, and Notre -Dame. I ascended to the top, and 1
went to see the bells, just like an English girl. Well!
There is a Paris I adore and that is old Paris, and I could
be happy there, but only by avoiding the boulevards, the
Champs - filys^es, all the new and fine quarters, which I
abominate, and which irritate me. But over there in the
Faubourg Saint-Germain you feel quite differently.
We saw the iScole des Beaux-Arts. It is enough to
make one cry.
Why cannot I go and study there? Where can any
one get such thorough teaching as there ? I went to see
the Exhibition of the Prix de Roma The second prize
was won by one of Julian's pupils. Julian is much pleased.
If ever I am rich I will found a School of Art for
women.
Saturday, October 26th. — My painting is much better,
and my study from the nude very good. M. T was
the examiner for the competition. Breslau was first, I second.
In short I ought to te satisfied.
This morning, as Robert Fleury was speaking to me
in the corner about the designs for my sculpture, I stood
listening to him like a little child, with a took of inno-
cence on my face, my cheeks changing colour, not knowing
what to do with my hands. He could not help smiling
while he spoke, and so did I, for I was thinking that I
smelt of fresh violets, that my hair, naturally wavy, dry,
and light was full of delicious light and shade, ana that
my hands, holding I don't remember what, had assumed
amusing attitudes.
Breslau says that the way my hands touch things is a
beauty in itself, although my hands are not classically
beautiful.
But one must be an artist to discover this beauty.
The bourgeois and people in society do not notice the way
one takes hold of tnings, and always prefer plump, or
even fat, hands to mine.
Between ten and eleven o'clock I had time to read five
newspapers and two numbers of Duruy.
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PARIS, 1878. 341
I fear that these school successes do me harm. I am
almost ashamed of getting on so well, and that they say to
me "much better" or "very good," makes me conscious of
neither the difficulties conquered nor the progress made —
but when they say it to Breslau, it seems to me that she
is a great artist.
Tnat should reassure me a little.
Sunday, November 3rd. — Mamma, Dina, Mme. X , and
I, drove out together. They want to get me married, but in
order that they should not make me the means of enriching
some good gentleman, I declared plainly that I was perfectly
willing to marry, but only on condition that the man was
rich, in a good position, and handsome, or else some clever
and distinguished man. As for his temper, were he the devil
himself that is my look-out.
Madame G spoke so profanely of the arts that I
shall go out of the room if she speaks of them again before
me. She quotes the example of ladies who paint at home
and have masters, and she says that I shall be able to do
the same when I am married. In the tone of indifference
of the woman of the world, of the bourgeoise, there is some-
thing horribly revolting, which shocks all the nobler artistic
feelings.
You understand, I reason things out for myself sensibly
and logically.
I snail try first to compass the marriage of my dreams.
If I am not successful in that I shall marry, as every one
else does, by the help of my fortune. And so I am quite
easy in my mind about it When you marry, you have to
reflect that it is not like choosing a suite of rooms which you
hire by the month, but like buying a house. You must
have everything you require in it; you cannot make shift
with an insufficient number of rooms, as you would in a
lodging. Moreover, an old Russian tradition says that
"Buildings added on bring ill-luck."
Tuesday, November 5th. — One thing there is which I
think truly beautiful, and worthy of the heroic age : that
self-annihilation of a woman before the superiority of the
man she loves must be the most exquisite gratification of
her self-esteem that can be felt by a woman of noble mind.
Saturday, November 9th. — A shameful defeat. No medal
given at an, which will cause those fools of girls who
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342 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
are advanced, and who did not compete, to triumph. I
am first all the same ; I think I should have been,
even against Breslau. There would have been a tie for
the first place ; but this inward conviction amounts to
nothing. The fact remains; they did not compete, no
medal was awarded. In my heart I don't care two straws.
Breslau is the only one for whom I have any respect And,
after all, she has worked three years at Julian's, and two at
Zurich ; in all nearly five years, not reckoning, that is,
time lost through illness. Ana I have worked altogether only
eleven months. And if you take into consideration my
previous attempts, it will make up another month. If you
count the copies from engravings, and the six heads I painted
at Rome, done at different times, all this spoiling of paper
makes up one month's work (eight hours a day, / declare mi
my honour), six weeks at most So that we arrive at a total of
one year. And all this to announce to you with great pomp,
that I draw from the undraped model as well as Breslau ;
the masters told me so.
Wednesday, Novennber ISth. — Robert Fleury came this
evening. It would be idle to repeat all the words of
encouragement which he said to me after a long lesson.
If what these people say is true, you will know, by the time
you read this, what to think of me.
But it gives one pleasure, notwithstanding, to see that one
is being really taken seriously. I am absurd .... I have
the most unbounded hopes for myself, and when other
people tell me the same thmg, I seem never to have suspected
such possibilities, and am in ecstasies of joy. I am as mil of
surprise, and as radiant, as a monster who learns that he is
loved by the most beautiful of women.
Robert Fleury is an excellent teacher; he leads you on
step by step, so that you feel at each step the progress you
have made.
To-night he treated me a little like a pupil who had learnt
his scales, and who had been given a piece for the first time.
He lifted the corner of the veil, ana revealed to me wider
horizons.
To-night marks an era in my work
Saturday, November 16th. — And to-day Robert Fleury
was very pleased with Breslau, and advised her to do some-
thing for the Salon ; adding that she would get in, he himself
would answer for it
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PARIS 187 . 343
As for me, this week I had that old G next to me, the
pest of the studio ; a good creature, but without any sense, and
trying to one's nerves.
My drawing is now as good as Breslau's ; she still has the
advantage of me in practice. Now I must give myself so
many months to paint as well as she does, for if I can't do
that there can be nothing extraordinary in me. During the
seven or ten months which I allow myself she will not stop . .
so that I shall be obliged to push on fast enough to catch
up the past ten months m the seven or ten months in which
we shall race together.
It seems to me very unlikely, and would be very extra-
ordinary. Well, I must leave it to Providence.
Wednesday, November 20th. — This evening, after my bath,
I suddenly became so pretty that I spent twenty minutes
looking at myself. I am sure that if people could see me
to-night, I should be a success. The colour of my com-
plexion is absolutely dazzling and yet delicate and tender;
my cheeks have but the faintest tinge of pink ; nothing
marked but the lines of the lips, the eyebrows, and the eyes.
Please don't think I am blind when I am looking plain. I
see it myself I assure you ; and this is the first time 1 have
been looking pretty for a very long while. My painting
swallows up everything.
The horrible thing of life is that all must fade, become
parchment-like, and perish !
Thursday, November 21st — Breslau has painted a cheek
so absolutely true and lifelike that I, a woman and a rival
artist, felt inclined to kiss that woman's cheek. . . .
This must often happen in every-day life ; one must not
approach too near for fear of soiling one's lips, and ruining
the thing one admires.
Robert Fleury came to-night to the studio. My work is
still getting on well
Friday, November 22nd. — The prospect of Breslau's
future frightens me. I am disheartened and sad.
She can compose, and in her work there is nothing
feminine, commonplace, or mis-shapen. She will attract
attention at the Salon, for besides the expression she will put
into it, the subject she will choose will be no ordinary one. I
am truly mad to envy her ; I am but a child in art, while she is
a grown-up woman.
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344 MARIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
My painting before everything. For the moment I am in
low spirits ; everything Iooks black to me.
Satwrday, November 23rd. — Robert Fleury has spoken to
me again concerning " a real artistic future, the future of a
Eainter of true talent" I do not remember the expressions
e used, but he spoke of the study from the whole figure I
did in the evenings, and Breslau, who heard, looked at me
with that air of Kindly esteem which people assume when
they do not want to seem jealous.
It was not with reference to this week's head that he
spoke, for mjr painting is still so poor that there is not much
to say about it , but with reference to my work as a whole.
What puts me out slightly is that he ordered me not to be
content with studies at the studio, but to do sketches,
composition from imagination, &c.
Hitherto my work had been that of a machine; now I
must put something of myself into it, and show some
independence.
By the way in which he advised me to work, and by the
way he encouraged me, I saw that I am in his good graces,
like Breslau. You understand that I don't care a rap for the
man, I do care for the master; for I tell you again that
though he be not a painter whose work takes one by storm,
our cnief is perfect as a teacher.
With Breslau and myself he has a particular way of correct-
ing the work
To-night I have been again to see the Amants de Vtron*
with Naoine and PauL We asked Filippino to come with
us. Capoul and Heilbronn sang and acted most delightfully.
The score seems to open like a flower as one listens to it for
a second time. I must go again. The flower will seem to
open still more, and give forth a delicious perfume. The
work contains exquisite phrases, but one needs both patience
and delicacy of ear to appreciate them. This music does
not force its beauty on you, you must seek out its charm,
which, subtle and faint as it is, yet exists.
Sunday, November 24>th. — We went to see the Museum of
Antiauities with Nadine. What simplicity and what beauty !
An ! there will never be a second Greece !
Monday, December 16tf*. — It is freezing and snowing. I
can only find rest in work, and I pass the two remaining
hours in reading or dozing.
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PARIS, 1878. 345
Never, never before have I been so depressed, down-
hearted, discouraged, and sceptical I care for nothing in the
world.
I am at work, but like a machine ; I must make a good
sketch, and get praised for it. This will give me back my
interest in the artist's fame, and be a reason for living.
Satwrday> December 21s£. — Done nothing good to-day.
My painting doesn't get on ; I think I shall want more than
six months to do as well as Breslau. She will be a remark-
able woman, no doubt .... an odd mixture, I should say,
if oddness were not so common nowadays.
My painting doesn't get on.
" Well, my girl, you think that Breslau painted better than
you do after two months and a half ; but she painted from
still-life or plaster casts."
Six months ago Robert Fleury made the same remarks to
her which he did to me this morning: — "Your work is too
smooth ; the tone is crude and cold. Try and get out of this.
Make one or two copies."
She didn't die of it at the end of ten months of painting ;
Bhall I die of it at the end of ten weeks ?
Friday, December 27th. — I have lost a week at the
studio. For the last three days I have wanted to write
down some reflections which I can't quite recall; but
irritated by the singing of the young lady on the second
floor I began turning over the leaves of my stay in Italy,
and then I was interrupted and lost the thread of my
thoughts and that melancholy frame of mind which is
not unpleasant
I am surprised at the ease with which I made use of
high-sounding words at that time to describe the simplest
occurrences.
But as I aimed at great sentiments, I was vexed at not
being able to describe strange, wonderful, and romantic
sensations, and made myself the interpreter of my senti-
ments ; painters will understand what I mean. That is all
very well; but how could a girl who claims to be intel-
ligent be so mistaken about tne true value of men and
events ? I say this because I was just going to remark
that my relatives ought to have told me, tor example,
that A was not to be taken seriously, nor a man
about whom one should be in the least put out In short,
they talked most injudiciously about him to me, my mother
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346 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
being younger than myself; but still, in spite of it all,
since I have such a high opinion of my intelligence, I ought
to have been a better judge, and should have treated him
like everybody else, instead of making so much of him in
my journal and elsewhere.
But I was full of impatience to have romances to record,
and fool that I was, it would perhaps have been more
romantic without them. In short, I was young and in-
experienced, in spite of my rhodomontades and boastings ;
I must confess it at last, at whatever cost
Very well ! methinks I hear the reader say, a strong-
minded woman like you should not be obliged to retract
her words.
Sunday, December 29th. — Thereupon I leaned my head
on the sofa, and fell sound asleep till eight o'clock this
morning. How amusing it is to sleep like this out of your
bed!
I have quite lost hold of art, and can't get my mind
fixed on anything whatever. My books are packed up; I
am forgetting my Latin and my classics, and feel quite
stupid. The sight of a temple, of a column, of an Italian
landscape, makes me loathe this Paris, so dry, worldly-wise,
learned, and over-refined. The human beings are afl ugly
here. This paradise, for it is a paradise to highly organised
natures, is nothing to me. Yes, rest assured that I am
cured of my errors. I am neither clever nor happy ; I feel
inclined to go to Italy, to travel, to see mountains, lakes,
woods, and seas. But travel with my family and their
parcels, and their daily little bickerings, recriminations,
tribulations ! No ; a hundred times, no ! To enjoy the
delights of travel I must wait, but time passes. So much
the worse ! I could always marry an Italian prince whenever
I wished to do so ; therefore let us wait.
For you see by taking an Italian prince I could go on
working, as the money would belong to me ; but then I
should nave to give some to him. In the meanwhile I will
stay here, and go on with my painting.
On Saturday my drawing, done in two days, was not
considered bad. You will see that it is only with an Italian
that I could live in my own way either in France, Italy,
or where I liked best ; wnat a delightftil life ! I should live
partly in Paris, partly in Italy.
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347
CHAPTER VII.
PARIS, 1879.— THE SALON.
Thwrsday, January 2nd. — What I long for is the
freedom of going about alone, of coming and going, of
sitting on the seats in the Tuileries, and especially in the
Luxembourg, of stopping and looking at the artistic shops,
of entering the churches and museums, of walking about tne
old streets at night ; that's what I long for ; and that's the
freedom without which one can't become a real artist. Do
you imagine I can get much good from what I see, chaperoned
as I am, and when, in order to go to the Louvre, I must
wait for my carriage, my lady companion, or my family ?
Curse it all, it is tins that mates me gnasn my teeth to
think I am a woman ! — I'll get myself a bourgeois dress
and a wig, and make myself so ugly that I shall be as free as
a man. It is this sort of liberty that I need, and without
it I can never hope to do anything of note.
The mind is cramped by these stupid and depressing
obstacles; even if I succeeded in making myself ugly by
means of some disguise I should still be only half free,
for a woman who rambles about alone commits an impru-
dence. And when it comes to Italy and Rome ? The idea
of going to see ruins in a landau !
" Marie, where are you going?"
"To the Coliseum."
" But you have already seen it ! Let us go to the theatre
or to the Promenade ; we shall find plenty of people there."
And that is quite enough to make my wings droop.
This is one of the principal reasons why there are no
female artists. O profound ignorance ! O cruel routine !
But what is the use of talking ?
Even if we talked most reasonably we should be
subject to the old, well-worn scoffs with which the apostles
of women are overwhelmed. After all, there may be some
cause for laughter. Women will always remain women !
But still . . . supposing they were brought up in the
way men are trained, the inequality which I regret would
disappear, and there would remain only that which is
inherent in nature itself. Ah, well, no matter what I may
say, we shall have to go on shrieking and making ourselves
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348 MABIE BA8HKTRT8EFF.
ridiculous (I will leave that to others) in order to gain
this equality a hundred years hence. As for myself, I will
try to set an example by showing Society a woman who shall
have made her mark, m spite of all the disadvantages with
which it hampered her.
Friday, January 10th — Robert Fleury came to the
studio in the evening.
We dine and breakfast at the Cafe Anglais, where the
food is good; it is the best restaurant in the place.
The Bonapartist papers, and the Pays in particular, were
so stupid about the elections that I feel a sort of shame
for them, as I did yesterday for Massenet when his incanta-
tion was encored, for it lost its charm by repetition.
If I don't win fame quickly enough with my painting
I will kill myself, that is all. I made up my mind to this
several months ago. ... In Russia once before I wanted to
kill myself, but I was afraid of hell I will kill myself
when I am thirty years of age, for until thirty we are still
young and can hope for some turn of luck — happiness, or
success, or anything in short There, now, thats settled;
and if I were sensible, I should not worry myself, neither
to-night, nor ever again.
I am speaking very seriously, and am quite pleased at
having settled it so far.
Satwrday, January 11th. — At the studio it is thought
that I go greatly into society ; and this, together with my
position, keeps me apart, and prevents me from asking them
to do any ot the little things for me that they are in the
habit of doing for each other — to accompany me to some
painter's, for instance, or to a studio.
I worked honestly all the week until ten o'clock on
Saturday night, then I went home and began to cry. Until
now I have always prayed to God, but as He never hears
me at all, I almost begin to lose my faith.
Only those who have experienced this feeling can fully
understand the horror of it I do not wish to preach
religion out of goodness, but God is a very convenient
institution. When there is no one to have recourse to,
when all other means fail, there still remains God. It
commits us to nothing, disturbs nobody, while affording a
supreme consolation. Whether He exists or no, we are
absolutely bound to believe in Him, unless we are quite
happy, and then we can do without Him. But in sorrow
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PARIS, 1879. 349
and misfortune — in fact, in discomforts ot every kind — it
were better to die than not to believe.
God is an invention which saves us from utter despair.
Only think then what a thing it is to call upon His name
in one's last extremity, without relieving in Him !
Monday, January \Wi (New Year's Day in Russia). —
Well, I am amusing myself with nonsense, as usual ....
The whole of Sunday is spent at the theatre. A matinee,
at the Gaiet6, which is rather dull, and an evening per-
formance of Le Pre aux Clercs, at the Op£ra-Comique. I
have been spending the night washing myself, writing and
reading, lying on the floor, and drinking tea
It is a quarter-past five ; so I will go early to the studio
and this evening l shall be sleepy; to-morrow morning I
will rise early and all will go on capitally. Do not imagine
that I admire myself for all these tricks, for I am disgusted
and horrified with myself But never mind, I greeted the
New Year in an original fashion — on the floor with my
dogs ... I have worked all day long.
Tuesday ', January \Wi. — I was unable to get up till half-
past eleven after sittmg up all night The competition was
judged this morning by the three masters — Lefebvre,
Kobert Fleury, and Soulanger. I only reached the studio
at one o'clock, and then only to learn the result The
elder girls had been examined this time, and the first
words that greeted my ears as I entered, were : " Well, Mile.
Marie, come along and receive vour medal ! "
And indeed there was my drawing fastened to the wall
with a pin, and bearing the word : " Prize." I should have
been less surprised had a mountain fallen on my head.
I must explain to you the importance and real meaning
of these competitions. Like all other competitive examin-
ations, they are useful, but the rewards are not always the
proof of the tastes and natural ability of the individual
For it is unquestionable that Breslau, for instance, whose
picture comes fifth in the list, is superior in every way to
bang, who comes first after the medal Bang goes piano e
8ano, and her work is like good honest caq>entering ; but
she always takes a high place, because women's work is in
general rendered painful Dy its weakness and fancifulness,
whenever it is not of a strictly elementary character.
The model was a lad of eighteen years, who, both in
form and colour, strikingly resembled a cat's head that
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350 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
one would make with a saucepan, or a saucepan in the fonn
of a cat's head. Breslau has painted some figures which
would easily win the medal ; out this time she has not
succeeded. And further, it is not execution nor beauty
which is most appreciated down below, for beauty has
nothing to do witn study, you may have it in you or not,
execution being only the complement of other more
important qualities; but it's above all, correctness, boldness,
ana perception of truth. They don't consider the diffi-
culties, and they are right; therefore a good drawing
is preferred to an indifferent painting. What, after all, do we
do here ? We study ; and these heads are judged solely
from that point of view. Mine is a perfect swaggerer.
These* gentlemen despise us, and it is only when they
come across a powerful, and even brutal, piece of worlt,
that they are satisfied; this vice is very rare amongst
women.
It is the work of a young man, they said of mine It is
powerful ; it is true to nature.
" I told you that we had a stunner up there," said Robert
Fleury to Lefebvre.
"You have won the medal, young lady," said Julian,
" and it was awarded with honours ; the gentlemen did not
hesitate."
I ordered a bowl of punch, as is the custom down-stairs,
and Julian was called. I received congratulations, for many
E resent imagined that I had reached tne height of my am-
ition, and that they should get rid of me.
Wick, who won the medal at the last examination
but one, is this time the eighth; but I console her by
repeating to her the words of Alexandre Dumas, who says
so truly : — " A failure is not a proof that we have no talent,
whereas one successful piece of work is a proof that we have."
This definition is, after all, the one most exactly applicable to
these matters.
A genius may do a bad thing, but a fool can't do a good
ona
Thursday, January 16th. — With two or three exceptions
the evening pupils do not come in the morning.
I have keen much praised; that was a delightful
moment, though, when . . .
" Come and take your medal ! "
The other night, at Madame de M 's, I said in a sweet,
low voice, when showing my medal —
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PARI8, 1879. 351
" This represents a great deal of courage, Madame."
And, indeed, it represents the work of twelve months. Next
to the terror I experienced after my meeting with the king
at Naples, the most violent emotion of my life has been the
reading of L'Homme-Fernme. The admiration I felt for
Dumas made me believe for a few minutes that I loved,
with passion and frenzy, this man of fifty-five years, whom
I had never seen. I understood Bettina and Goethe.
Friday, January 17th. — If I were only sixteen I should
be the happiest woman on earth.
" Well!" said Robert Fleury, "you have got the prize."
" Yes, Monsieur."
"That's all right; and you may be sure that you have
deserved it"
" Oh, Monsieur, I am happy to hear you say so."
" Yes ; it is well gained, not only on account of the head
you did for the competition, but you have deserved it for
your work generally. You have made great progress, and I
am glad that it has so happened, and that you have won
the medal ; you have thoroughly deserved it"
I was blushing, and felt confused as I listened, which
rather took from my pleasure in hearing those words ; but my
aunt, who was present, trembled more tnan I did.
" Mademoiselle Breslau has produced a nice horror," he
said to the Spanish girl as he moved away.
"It was so difficult, Monsieur."
" Oh ! tut, tut. It is because she has taken it into her
head not to work ; she appears now and then, and if she
does not receive endless compliments, she disappears and we
see nothing of her for weeks. She has, nevertheless, done
some studies which . . . ."
"That head was so difficult, Monsieur," rejoined the
Spaniard, who would take the devil's part if necessary, in
order to find fault with the competitions.
"But she doesn't work."
"But she does something at home . . . ."
" It would be much better for her to make a good prize
drawing." The poor man was annoyed that this should take
place before Lefebvre and Boulanger.
Saturday January 19th. — I have again caused, maintained,
and quieted a studio rebellion. After it was over I went
and told everything to Julian, so that he might not
have the facts put before him in a distorted form.
T
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&52 MARIE BA8HKIBTSEFF.
Greatness in the bud ! Science and talent in the bud
I very much fear that all these buds will only make a
harvest for some donkey ! Oh ! if only I could be a man !
but no, it would be better to die.
Wednesday, January 20th. — All day I am thinking of a
blue sea, of white sails, and a sky all brightness ....
On entering the studio I find P . This old mush-
room tells me that in a week's time he is going to
Rome, and in the conversation he happens to mention
Katarbinsky, and others .... and I leel myself trans-
ported with joy at this prospect of sunshine; of old
marbles amongst the foliage ; of . ruins, statues, and
churches. The Campagna ! that " desert, " ; yes, but I adore
that desert. And thank God there are many besides myself
who love it.
That divine and artistic atmosphere ; that light, which,
when I think of it, makes me cry with rage at Deing here.
I know some painters there !
There are three classes of people : the first love
all this, are artists, and do not find the Campagna an
odious desert cold in winter and unbearable in summer;
the second don't understand art and don't feel its
beauty, but dare not own it, and try to look like
the former. These latter do not displease me so very
much, for they see their nakedness, and try to con-
ceal it. The third section resembles the second, but
has not this redeeming feature. This is the class
that I loathe, because they disparage and chill you. They
do not feel or understand anything themselves ; they
pronounce art to be nonsense; and, narrow, callous, and
revolting, they wallow in the full sunshine of Italy.
Monday, Fefamary 3rd. — Yesterday I went to see
LAsnommoir, and liked it very much. But beforehand,
from about five o'clock until evening, I spent my time
trying to make a sketch. One must practise .... The
others downstairs do so every Sunday; they are given a
subject, and are expected to make a rough sketch from
imagination.
As for myself, I begin at the beginning : Adam and Eve,
on a canvas No. 4. And now that I've begun, I shall do
one every week If I listened to myself, I should never have
done talking about my talents. For a first attempt my
sketch is very good ....
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PARIS, 1879. 363
I will show it to. Julian with another that I am going
to do.
Tuesday, February 4>th. — This evening the model did
not come. I sat, and while I was on the platform
Julian arrived, and we talked politics. I enjoy, talking to
that slyboots.
I make fun of everything and everybody at the
studio. I recite, jeer, and amuse them ; I sketch out
political programmes when I am in the mood, and Julian
says to me : " Bravo ! And your painting besides ! . . . .
Why, with such gifts you might become unique in Paris."
He thinks me very witty ana clever, ruling our salon at
home, and very influential.
Wednesday, February 5th. — There! we have been to
Versailles, on the first day of the Gambetta Presidency.
His speech, which he read, was received with enthusiasm,
and had it been worse the result would have been the
same. Gambetta read badly, and with a detestable voice.
He has not the moderation of a President, and, after
seeing Gr6vy, you wonder what this man is doing there.
In order to preside over a Chamber it is not sufficient to
be talented — a particular temperament is necessary. Gr£vy
presided with mechanical regularity and precision. The first
word of his sentences just htted the last. Gambetta makes
crescendos and diminuendos: he expands and contracts; he
throws his head about, and has ups and downs. . . ! In
short, he is either incoherent or very artful.
Sunday, February 16th. — On Saturday I received a
scolding.
"I cannot understand how, with your abilities, you find
so much difficulty in painting."
Well, I don't understand it either. I feel paralysed! I
can struggle no longer! There's nothing for it but to die.
good God ! have I nothing more to expect from anyone ?
And, worst of all, I have just filled the fireplace with wood,
without the smallest necessity, for I wasn't cold, . . .
while perhaps at this very moment there are manv
poor wretches who are hungry and cold, and weeping with
misery. These reflections immediately check the tears that
1 am so fond of shedding. It's only a notion, perhaps, but I
fancy that I should prefer complete misery; for then one
is at the lowest ebb, and there is nothing to fear, and one
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354 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
doesn't die of hunger so long as one has any strength left
to work.
Tiiesday, February 18th. — A little while ago I fell on my
knees beside my bed to ask God for justice — for pity, or
pardon ! If I do not deserve my agonies, let Him do me
justice ! If I have committed grievous sins, I ask
Him for forgiveness ! If He exists, and is really such as
we are taugnt to believe, He must be just, He must pity
and forgive. I have none but Him ; it is therefore natural
that I should go to Him, begging Him not to forsake me
in my despair, not to lead me into temptation, and not to
let me doubt, and blaspheme, and die. My sins are, no
doubt, like my sufferings — doubtless I commit every minute
petty sins which form an overwhelming total
Just now I spoke harshly to my aunt, but I could not
help it. She came in just when I was weeping, with my
hands over my face, and was summoning God to attend to
me a little. Oh, misery of miseries ! They mustn't see me
weeping, or they might think it was from love, and then I
should . . . weep with rage.
Wednesday, Felrruary 19th. — I must do something to
amuse myself I say this in silly imitation of what is
written in books. What is the use of amusing oneself?
Even suffering itself is a kind of enjoyment ; and then I am
not like other people, and I hate all those things that they
do to improve themselves — morally and physically — because
I don't believe in it.
Nice, Friday, February 21st — Here I am at Nice. I
want to bathe in the air, to drown myself in light, and to
listen to the sound of the waves. Do I like the sea ?
Why, I adore it. Rome is the only place in which I
forget it ... or nearly forget it.
I travelled with Paul. . . We were taken for husband
and wife, which ruffled me immensely. As our villa is let,
we go to the H6tel du Pare — the old villa Aqua Viva,
in which we lived eight years ago. Eight years! and I am
travelling for pleasure. We dine at London House.
Antoine, the proprietor, comes and pays me his respects, and
so do the dames du comptoir. Then all the cabmen smile
and bow, and the one we engage pays me compliments on my
having grown so much — he knows me. Another one offers
his services, telling us that he served Mme. Romanoff.
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PARIS, 1879. 355
Next come my friends of the Rue de France. This is all
very nice, and these good people have given me much
pleasure.
The night is beautiful, and I escape all alone until ten
o'clock in the evening ; I go roaming by the sea-shore, and
sing to the accompaniment of the waves. There is not a
living soul in sight, and the scene is very lovely after Paris
— especially after Paris !
Saturday, February 22nd. — How different from Paris!
Here I awake without effort; the windows are open all
night. The room I occupy is the very one in which we took
our drawing lessons with Benza, I watch the sun gradually
lighting up the trees near the fountain in the middle of the
garden, as I used to see it every morning ; my little study still
has the same paper, the one I chose myself. It is no doubt
occupied by some English barbarian. ... I recognised the
room by tne paper, for they have built a passage, which
confuses me ; tne room I am in was a conservatory. The
weather is beautiful !
We dine at London House, and shall continue to do so
as long as we stay at Nice. Everybody is to be seen there,
especially during the carnival time.
Sunday, February 23rd. — Yesterday we went to Monaco.
I can never express now this nest of cocottes repels me. I
only stayed in the gaming-rooms for ten minutes, but that was
enough for me, as I don't play. Mine. Abaza, who had
come there for the theatre, expressed her delight at meeting
me again. We heard a comic opera in the new hall, which is
very fine, and in the style of the day.
Gamier fecit !
I go for a walk in the twilight, and 1 admire the sea and
the sky. W T hat colour, what transparency, what purity, what
perfume !
Monday, February 24>th. — I am happy when I can ramble
alone. The waves are incomparably beautiful; I went to
listen to them before going to hear PattL It had been
raining, and there was a soft and delicious freshness in the
air. It does one's eyes good to gaze at night into the dark
blue of the sea and the sky. I was so absorbed that I did not
notice that the sea had broken away a part of the Promenade,
and I fell into this precipice of about two or three yards
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356 MARIE BASHRIRTSEFF.
Paris, Monday, March 3rd. — I started yesterday at mid-
day; the weather was superb, and I almost shed real tears
when leaving this delicious and incomparable country. From
my window I could see the garden, and the Promenade des
Anglais with its Parisian elegance. From the parage I could
see the Rue de France, with its old Italian buddings, and its
alleys with their picturesque light and shade. And all these
people who know me — " It is Mile. Marie," they say as I pass.
As much as the people of Nice have made me suffer, do I
adore the houses ana streets. It is my own country, after all.
Now I should like to leave Paris ; my mind wanders, and I
feel lost. I expect nothing more, I hope nothing more. I am
desperate and resigned. I think and think ; I seek, and
finding nothing, I neave one of those sighs which leave me
more oppressed than before. Come now, what would you do
in my place ?
Now that I am in this merciless Paris, I feel as though I
hadn't looked half enough at the sea ; I should like to see it
again. I have brought back with me poor Bagatelle, my dog
wno was run over at Spa, and has been so miraculously
cured. It seemed a pity to leave him there all alone. You
could not believe the goodness, faithfulness, and attachment of
this animal. He never leaves me, is always under my chair,
and hides himself with such a humble and pleading face when
my aunt comes to remonstrate about the carpets.
Tuesday, .Ma^rch Uh. — I called to see Mme. G- , and we
went out together ; she paid a few calls, during which time I
read the newspapers in the carriage. At her nouse we saw
the Countess Murat, with her daughter-in-law. Ah, yes, M.
G has at last obtained consent We talk with enthusiasm
about the departure of the Prince, then we deplore the dangers
to which he may be exposed, and go into ecstasies over his
energy. He did not ask anybody's advice.
And then if those good Zulus do eat Napoleon there will
not be so very much to despair about. When he is dead his
party disappears, and there are no further obligations ; people
will turn to that rascally Republic, which, after all, is the
sister of the Empire.
Wednesday, March 5th. — To-morrow I begin work again.
I give myself another year. One year in which I mean to
work more ardently than ever. Of what good is it to despair?
Oh yes, this is a thing we say when we feel in better spirits,
but when despair takes possession of you ....
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PARIS, 1879. 357
Despair, my angel, will not bring you anything, and
as there is nothing to be done let us set to work ! 1 shall have
time enough to be discouraged afterwards. As this life must
be dragged out in the hopes- of a better fate, let us be busy in
it. There is no way of getting out of it ; is it not just the same
thing whether I draw or read ? You will think these strange
reasonings to induce me to work ? It is no longer even a
makeshift! .... It is that I fear I may some aay say to
myself — "If, instead of remaining at the studio, you had
thought of self, you might perhaps have found . . . . "
Anything you like ! There may be some way ; but I
know not what to do.
Really, it is horrible ! I am always wondering if it would
be possible to bring my father here But, do you know
what he is doing ? He is having his house newly done up to
receive us. Thank you ! I have been there and have had
enough of it. My aunt and mother are incapable of
anything, and I am ashamed to admit that I am not able to
compel them ; even then nothing would come of it.
Just. when we are giving up seeking is the time to find.
In any case, painting can do me no harm But I receive
no encouragement! .... Jiist the very opposite. There,
my angel, justify yourself for your want of intelligence.
Romance ! stuff ! Oh ! Do you see ? I write, I think, I
dream, and then I stop short ; and there is always the same
silence, the same solitude, the room looks always the same.
The motionless furniture seems to provoke and mock me ! I
am here lighting with this nightmare while others live !
Glory I Oh bother glory !
I will marry ; why delay this event ? What am I waiting
for ? If I give up painting I have a wide field before me.
Then .... I must go to Italy and get married there
Not to Russia ; to buy a Russian would be dreadful. Besides,
in Russia I could easdy get married, especially in the country ;
but I am not such a fool. At St. Petersburg ? Well, if my
father would consent, we might spend a winter there
Next winter in St. Petersburg, then ! I do not think I am
fond of my art ; it was a means, I give it up Truly ?
Oh ! I can't tell .... Shall I give myself a year — the time
for which we have hired our apartments ?
To be or not to be ?
A year is not enough .... At the end of that time I
shall see if it is worth while going on But in Italy,
and if I give up painting, I shall be hearing talk of young lady
artists, that will enrage me and cause me to regret ; and when
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358 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
in Naples or St. Petersburg, every time I hear praises of
somebody's talent, how shall I be able to listen ? And the
foundation for all this would be my beauty. Supposing I do
not succeed ! For it is not only necessary to please ; you
must please some given man.
Directly I put art aside and admit the possibility of going
into society, or of shining at the promenade or at the theatre
.... I am rambling, I will go to bed. This thought of St
Petersburg really pleases me. However, at twenty years of
age, I shall not be so very old. In Paris, there is nothing
to be expected in the way of rich husbands ; as for poor ones,
Italy is much more convenient
Saturday ', March 8th. — I have been trying to model, but I
have never seen how it is done, and know nothing about it
The flower-stands and vases are filled with violets. I shall
have some for a long time ; they are in earth.
How beautiful is this blue satin, those violets, the light
streaming from above, the harp. . . . Not a sound, not a
soul ... I don't know why I am so afraid of the country ;
I am not afraid of it, ... . but am not eager for it . . .
After all, it is very charming as a rest, but I am not tired, only
dreadfully bored.
Sunday, March 9th. — Do you know that writing is a great
consolation! There are things which would kill you if you
couldn't destine them to be read by others, and so " divided to
infinity."
I am pleased to find that a man like Dumas troubled
himself about the quality of his paper, ink, and pens, because
each time that some accessory prevents my working, I tell
myself that it is idleness, and that great painters had no
whims. . . .
But stop. ... I can understand that Raphael, suddenly
inspired, should have drawn his Madonna delta Segg'wla on
the bottom of a cask ; but I also think that this same Raphael
must have had recourse to all his favourite tools in order to
paint and finish off his picture ; and had he been forced to
paint somewhere against his will, he would have become
as enervated as I do, ordinary mortal that I am, in Julian's
studio.
Wednesday, March 12th. — I must go and hang myself!
However mock-heroic and impossible and absurd this idea of
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PARIS, 1879. 359
destroying myself may seem to you, it must come to that at
last.
I do not get on with my painting. It is true, however, that
since I commenced painting I have worked anyhow, and with
many interruptions; but that has nothing to do with the
matter. I who had dreamed of being rich, nappy, a leader of
fashion, an attraction .... to lead, or I should say to drag
out such a life !
Mile. Elsnitz is my companion as usual, but the poor
thing is so dull Picture to yourself a tiny body, with a large
head and blue eyes. . . . Have you ever noticed at the
milliner's those wooden heads with pink cheeks and blue
eyes ? Well, that's it — the same in looks and expression.
Added to this is a languid air, which you also see on these
dummies which I have just mentioned ; a slow walk, but so
heavy that to hear her you would think it was a man; a
weak and drawling voice ; she takes in what you say with
astonishing slowness. She is always absent, never sees any-
thing at once, and after a while she stops in front of you and
gazes at you with such a serious face, that she either makes
you burst out laughing or puts you in a rage.
She often comes into the room and stands in the middle of
the floor as if rooted to the spot, and looking as though she
did not know where she was. Perhaps her most irritating
trick is her way of opening the doors ; this operation lasts so
long that every time I hear her I feel inclined to rush to her
assistance. I know that she is young — only nineteen. I
know too that she has always been unfortunate, that she is in
a strange house where she has not a friend, not a soul with
whom to exchange an idea. ... It often grieves me to see
her, and her gentle, passive expression touches me ; and then
I make up my mind to chat with her, to ... . But it is no
food; I nnd her cjuite as repulsive as 1 did the Pole and
I . I know it is wrong, but her idiotic look paralyses me.
I know what a sad position hers is ; but when she was with
the Anitchkoffs it was just the same. When asking me the
slightest thing, to play something on the piano, for instance,
she goes through as much hesitation and torture as I should
feel were I to beg some one to give me an invitation to a party
or a ball.
However, I do not chat with anybody here, so she is
not an exception.
I work at the studio, and when taking my meals at
home I read papers or a book. This is a habit I should
find it difficult to shake off. I read even while practising
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360 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
the mandoline. Therefore the poor little thing is not
treated worse than the others. I feel remorse, but I can't
help it.
I am intensely miserable when in her society. The
drives I am obliged to take with her would be a perfect
torture to me if I did not look out of the window, and. by
persistently thinking of something else manage to forget
her. . . It is not difficult to do so — nothing could be
more insignificant than the poor being, or more depressing !
I do so wish that she coidd find some condition m which
she might be happy, and so take herself off I am
ashamed to say that she spoils the desolate wilderness of
my life.
Oh, that painting ! if I could only do it !
FriiUty, March 14>tL — In spite of my remonstrances,
Paul has just left I got angry, and declared that he
shouldn't go. He declared, upon his honour, that he
would. I held the door; but, taking advantage of a
moment's absent-mindedness, he escaped.
It was to prove that he could keep his word. He had
sworn that he would go to-day. In snort, it was the firm-
ness of a weak mind who, feeling himself of no account in
important things, makes up for it in trifles.
This saved me from fretting. 1 immediately got twenty
francs from my aunt to send an abusive telegram to my
father at Poltava, but at the same moment Rosalie came
to tell me that I must not reckon on Champeau (a girl
who sometimes makes my dresses), as she has typhoid
fever. Her workwomen have left, and she is all alone.
An idea struck me. I tore up the telegram, and sent the
twenty francs to this woman.
There is nothing more pleasant than to do some good
for which one gets no return. I would willingly go and
see her — I am not afraid of typhus — but it would look as
though I expected to be thanked; and besides, I might
spena this trifle if I did not send it to her at once. .
I must confess that the pleasure of doing so would not
then be so keen. I suddenly feel an impulse to boundless
charity. To relieve the sorrows of others, when nobody
thinks of lightening mine, would be rather chic,
wouldn't it ?
Saturduy, March 15th. — If Robert Fleury — whom we call
Tony in his absence — scolds me to-day, I shall give up paint-
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PARIS, 1879. 361
ing. Yon know how much envy and unpleasantness my
progress cost me. Each time I get into a difficulty people
seem to say, "I told you so — it couldn't last!" My first
efforts won compliments; then I arrived at a more difficult
stage and saw that it caused too much satisfaction around
me not to suffer considerably. This morning I dreaded my
lesson, and while that animal of a Tony was correcting the
others, and getting nearer and nearer to my place, 1 was
saying prayers so fervently that Heaven seems to have
heard me — for I gave satisfaction. Good heavens ! what a
load fell from my mind! Perhaps you can't imagine such
emotions ? Can you imagine me waiting in anxious
silence fully conscious of the delight that would be felt
if I received a snub? This time it would have been for
good and all — for friends or enemies are the same in these
things. However, it is past. Next week I shall have courage
to endure any wrench.
Sunday, March 16th. — Coco is dead ! He was crushed
by a cart just before the door. When I called him to
dinner I was told of it. After the grief which I felt at
the death of Pincio the First, whose place the present
Pincia is filling, this misfortune seems less. . . But if
you had a dog born in the house — young, silly, playful,
ugly, good-natured, and affectionate, jumping and look-
ing at you with two eager and innocent eyes, like child-
ren's — you'd understand how much I suffered from his
loss.
I wonder where the souls of dogs go ? This poor little
creature, with its long white and woolless body — for he had
no more hair behind than in front — with one huge ear
always pricked up and the other hanging down ! in snort, I
E refer ten times over an ugly dog like this to one of those
ightful beasts which cost so much.
He looked like one of the beasts of the Apocalypse, or
one of the carved monsters on the roof of Notre-Dame.
Pincia does not seem to notice that her son has been
killed; it is true she is expecting a new family.
They shall all be called Coco or Coquelicot. I think it
is said that dogs have no souls. Why not?
Tuesday, April 1st. — Why should mirth be more agree-
able than sorrow ? We have only to make believe that ennui
pleases and amuses us.
A reminiscence of the Enchiridion of Epictetus, and very
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362 MARIE BA8HKIBT8EFF.
appropriate ; but I could reply, that first impressions are
involuntary ; so that however strong we may be, the first
impression must always have given us the start, after which
we may manage as we please, but in any case it must
always have been so. It is by far the most natural course
to continue in the direction of one's first impression, that
is to say, the natxural impression, to rely upon and strengthen
the feeling experienced, than to divert or twist it, and to
cripple one's feelings so far as to conform them one to the
other or, rather, to confuse them all, to efface them, and to
trouble no more about anything .... to cease living,
which is after all what I wisn to bring about
It would be shorter to . . . But no . . . Then all would
be over.
The most odious thing in the world is to be in it, to
live unknown, to see no one of any interest, or have a
chance of exchanging ideas with any one ; to know neither
the celebrities, nor the men of the day. . . . This is death,
this is hell!
I will speak now of what are commonly called misfor-
tunes. We ought not to rebel and complain; sorrows even
are joys, and they ought to be considered as indispensable
elements of life. Supposing I lose a loved one, do you
think it is nothing to me? On the contrary, I should be
in despair, I should weep and moan and cry out, and then
this pain would gradually melt into long prolonged, perhaps
abiding, sadness.
I don't say that this would be pleasant, I don't wish for
it, I don't prefer it ; but I can't help saying that it would
be life and therefore enjoyment.
We lose a husband or a child, we are deceived by a
friend ; and we loudly accuse our fate ; I should very likely
do the same. But these manifestations are in the nature of
things, and God is not offended at them, and men are not
offended either, knowing that these are the natural and
inevitable consequences of the sorrow we endure. We groan,
but we don't think in our inmost souls that these things
ought not to be ; we accept them almost unconsciously. We
may even seclude ourselves, and afterwards retire to a con-
vent — afterwards, you understand.
It may also frequently happen that we are happy when
quite alone, that is to say with a husband, or with the
Earents of whom we must think and for whom we live;
ut as regards myself, I am speaking on behalf of persons
who are quite alone Besides, I have now a grudge
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PARIS, 1879. 363
against my family as one of the causes of my sufferings.
Neither do I speak of the silent and unknown heroes
described in novels by persons who invent them, or copy
them from nature in order not to remain like them.
You imagine perhaps that I complain of a calm life,
and that I wish for excitement ? May be, but that's
not it.
I like solitude, and I even think that if I lived, I should
isolate myself from time to time to read, to meditate, and
to rest ; then it becomes a delight, an exquisite enjoy-
ment. In the dog days you are glad to get mto a cellar ;
but would you like to be there long, or for ever ?
Now if some knowing fellow would be at the trouble
to beat me in argument, he might ask me whether I
would consent to purchase life by the death of my
mother, for instance ? To this I would reply, that I
should not desire it even at the price of a life less dear, for,
in the order of nature, one's mother is the person one loves
the most.
My remorse would be horrible, and out of pure selfish-
ness I would not consent.
Thursday, April 3rd, — After all, life is pleasant. I sing
and dance when I am all alone, for perfect solitude is a great
enjoyment ; but what a torment when it is disturbed by the
servants, or by one's family ! . . . Even one's family ! . . .
Listen ! This morning, on returning from the studio, I
imagined that I was happy, and you wouldn't believe how
mucn affection I felt in my heart for all my people, and
for my good aunt, who is all devotion and abnegation. But
there it is, I am not happy !
Little Elsnitz embitters my existence. I no longer take
tea because she pours it out, and when I am obliged to eat
bread which her lingers have touched ! ! ! I would run the
risk of an aneurism, if by running madly along the stairs I
could get the start of her and walk a few steps without
her. When I want the decanter or the vinegar bottle, I
take them from the opposite side, so as not to touch what
she has touched. That poor girl has something of the
insect about her, and her plaintive looks and black nails
sicken me.
Saturday, April 5th. — Robert Fleury, being ill, scarcely
corrected at all; besides which my work has not been
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364 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
farticularly good. Sarah tries to reconcile me and Breslau ;
make objections, but in my heart I should be glad.
The artificial leaves on the mantelpiece caught fire from
the blue candles, and cracked the glass.
But misfortunes do not come because glasses break ;
f lasses break because misfortunes are to happen. We should
e thankful for the warning.
Sunday, April 6th. — I have a little morning hat, so
stylish that I am not afraid to go and spend the
morning alone at the Louvre ; but as the hat is becoming,
as well as distingvd, I have made the conquest of a young
artist, who has followed me all the time, and who risks a
bow in the passage where there is no one near ; but
I would not notice anything, so he was considerably
abashed.
Tuesday, April 15th. — Julian came in and announced
to us the death of our Emperor ; I was so startled, that I
did not comprehend what he said. Everybody got up to
look at me ; 1 turned pale, tears, stood in my eyes, ana my
lips quivered. Accustomed to see me make fun of every-
thing, the amiable Julian tried to laugh. The truth was, that
some fellow had fired four shots point blank at the Emperor,
but he was not hit.
And Julian slapped his thigh, saying that he should
never have thought me capable of such emotion; nor
should I.
Wednesday, April 16th. — Rather a funny conversation
with Breslau ; we were in the anteroom — I, she, and Sarah.
I gave an orange to Sarah, who offered half of it to Breslau,
and laughingly said —
" Take it ; it is from me, and not from Mademoiselle
Marie."
But as she hesitated, I stopped washing my brushes, and
turning towards her, said with a smile —
" I offer it you."
She was quite taken aback, and accepted the orange with
a blush ; I also blushed.
" What it is to have oranges," I said as I peeled another ;
" take some more, Mademoiselle."
" Sarah, did you see how we both blushed ? "
" It is so stupid," said Sarah.
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PARIS, 1879. 365
" You are overwhelmed with my kindness," said I laugh-
ingly to Breslau, as I offered her another slice.
" You see I don't care a fig for you," she said to me, as she
accepted it
" Not less than I ; but if you cared so little, you wouldn't
have got so red."
" I don't care a fig for myself, too."
"Ah ! that's all right then."
And as it was getting rather painful, I looked at them and
laughed — " I admire you ! "
" Me ? " asked Breslau.
" Yes ; you."
" You are quite right."
" Indeed ! "
And that was all.
" Are you coming, Sarah ? " asked Breslau.
I went back to my brush- washing.
How childish !
Friday, April ISth. — I have been looking for an Empire
or Directoire head-dress, which led me to read the article on
Mme. R£camier, and I am naturally depressed to think that I
might have a salon, but have none.
The imbeciles will say that I think myself quite as
beautiful as Mme. R£camier, and as witty as a goddess.
Let the fools talk, and let us content ourselves with saying
that I deserve a better fate ; and the proof of it is, that all those
who see me imagine that I take the lead, and that I am a
remarkable woman. People heave a deep sigh, and say, my
turn will perhaps come. ... I have got usea to God ; I have
tried not to believe in Him, but I cannot succeed .... that
would bring general collapse and chaos. I have only God — a
God who takes note of all my trivialities, and to whom I tell
everything.
Monday, April 21st. — Last day of the competition ; there
was considerable animation.
On Saturday I went with Lisen (a Swede) to see some
artists at Batignolles, near the Montmartre Cemetery. I
have found out that what I dislike in Paris are the boule-
vards and new parts.
Old Paris and the heights, where I went on Saturday,
breathe a perfume of poetry and peace which went to my
heart.
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366 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Tuesday, May 6th. — I am very busy and contented ; I was
miserable because I had too much leisure — I see it now. For
the last twenty days I have been working from eight to
twelve, and from two to five, getting home at half-past
five. I then work till seven o'clock ; in the evening I
sketch, or read, or play a little music, so that at ten o'clock
I am fit for nothing but bed.
Such an existence leaves no time to think how short one's
life is.
Music ; the evening hour ; the thought of Naples ....
distract my attention. . . . Let's read Plutarch.
Wednesday, May 7th. — If this working fit would but last,
I should think myself quite happy. I adore drawing and
Eainting, composition and sketching, crayon and red chalk ; I
ave had no wish to be idle, nor to rest.
I am hapgy ! One month of such days represents the
progress of six ordinary months. It is so absorbing, so
interesting, that I fear it will not last At such times as
these I believe in myself.
Thursday, May 8th. — In my simple childhood, I thought,
by the interest I felt in reading stones of the cardinals, at the
A period, that I had the power to love. Recently I have
read histories of painters with the same interest, and have
even felt my heart beat at some studio stories.
Saturday, May 10th. — My ^painting is not bad, nor the
tone unpleasant. As for the composition, Julian thought it
very good as regards expression, grouping, and arrangement,
but said it was badly executed. He also added that tnis was
not an important point in these competitions, which is quite
comprehensible.
Monday, May 12th — I look pretty, and am happy and in
good spirits. We went to the Salon, and chatted about every-
thing, for we met Beraud, the painter, whom we puzzled at
the masked ball, and who passed us, not guessing who
we were.
JJBreslau's picture is a fine canvas, filled with a large easy-
chair of gilt leather, in which her friend Marie is sitting,
in a dark-green dress of subdued tint, with something of
grey-blue colour round the neck; in one hand she holds a
portrait and a flower, in the other she has a packet of
letters which she has just tied up with a red ribbon. The
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PARIS, 1879. 367
arrangement is simple, and the subject is well known.
Admirable drawing, with great harmony of tone, the effect
of which is almost charming.
I suppose I am uttering an enormity when I say that
we have not a single great artist. There is Bastien-Lepage ;
where are the others ? . . . . There's knowledge, facility,
conventionality, school-work, plenty of conventionality, an
enormous amount of it.
Nothing true, nothing that moves, strikes, thrills, or
touches, nothing that makes you shiver or weep. I do not
speak of sculpture ; I do not know enough about it to give
an opinion. But to see the utter want of solidity of the
domestic or genre pictures, and these horrible pretentious
mediocrities, and the portraits, either common or good, is
enough to sicken you.
I have seen nothing good to-day but the portrait of
Victor Hugo, by Bonnat, and, perhaps, Breslau's picture.
Breslau s arm-chair is out of drawing, the woman seems
to be holding on to it, because it seems to lean towards
the beholder : it is a pity. I mention Bonnat because there
is some life in what he paints, and Breslau because all the
middle tones are so harmonious.
I cannot allow that it is right to give, as L does,
the same toes to every woman .... it irritates and
enrages me.
Wednesday, May 14>th. — Instead of going to the
Salon, I worked at my sketch .... "The Death of
Orpheus."
I do not feel perplexed either with the composition or
the drawing. I have got notions of glory and happiness,
and of all that is most delightful in the world.
Friday, May 16th. — The Salon is a bad thing because,
when you see the rubbish, the utter rubbish, which is
there, you begin to think yourself somebody, when, in
reality, you are nobody.
Sunday, May 30th. — Jeanne sat to me, and we kept her
to dinner with us.
She is, I need not tell you, a woman well born, per-
fectly well bred, highly educated, and intelligent; she is
badly dressed, and looks like a board, while, in reality, she
has one of the most beautiful figures you could wish to see,
though she is brown and thin.
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368 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
She has magnificent eyes, her mouth is of the same
width as her eyes, and as the breadth of her nose. Her
nose is very large, but beautiful and noble in shape ; and
her neck is like a swan's. She reminds me of the Queen of
Italy, although she is very dark ; not, however, as regards
her skin, for that is fairly white.
You must know that she married Baron W , junior,
an awful brute.
The poor woman was at death's door when her family came
to her rescue by suing for a separation. Poor woman !
she hates him.
In this case, you see, it would be better to drown
one's self than to live with one's husband. But I don't
think Jeanne capable of loving at all She is a fenime de
Temple, if you have read V Homme-Femme.
Thursday, June 5th. — After Jeanne had sat, we went
together to Mme. de Souza, whose at-home day is Thurs-
day. In the evening we went to the L 's, and mamma
accompanied me; sne still wore mourning in order to
make a better impression on her hosts.
M. de L lights a candle and takes us to look at
the children, who are all in bed and asleep. Just like a
guide showing you the curiosities in a museum. He carries
off the guests m parties, and shows them the nine wonders
of the world, which they really are considering the age of
their father.
Saturday, June 7th. — Mme. de L sent all her seven
children with three nurses to see us.
But first let me say that my painting was not bad in
tone (that's the most important thing for me), but faulty
in the composition ! R. F. scolded me, but I need not
fret too much about that, for in working hard at the
colour I overlook the composition ; but I will make up
for that afterwards when I nave conquered the colouring ;
ou do not lose what you have by nature. But all the same
am in a dark cloua. To return to the L children,
they are curiosities. They are accustomed to be trotted
out to visitors, and to perform studied movements. In
five minutes' time they were quite at home ; they wanted
me to draw their portraits, each one posed in his turn. I
sketched them all m five or seven minutes ; the eldest con-
sidered my sketch very good. Next he wanted me to put
the number and name under each face.
F
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PARIS, 1879. 369
I feel stupefied, out of my element, and bored.
Monday, June 9th. — No doubt it is the warm and heavy
weather which makes me good for nothing. I have worked
all day long, and, moreover, I have quite made up my mind
not to shirk my work ; but I feel much shaken.
To-night we are going to the Foreign Office ball. I
shall look plain ; I am sleepy and should like to go to bed.
I am not longing for a succhs d'estime, ana I feel that
I shall seem plain and stupid. I do not even think of making
" conquests " nowadays. I dress well, but I no longer throw
my soul into it, and I never think about the sensations I
may c$iuse. I look at nothing and nobody, and am dread-
fully bored. I care for nothing but painting. I have no
wit left, no readiness of speech ; when I speak I am dull or
exaggerated, and .... I must set about making my will,
for I feel that this cannot last.
Saturday, June \Uh. — I have been drawing this week
and they consider that I have not done as well as I ought
I am sick of life !
Sunday, June 15th. — For the moment I cast away all my
cares and have quite made up my mind to work.
Julian is a great man as regards the way in which he com-
prehends the duties which are incumbent upon me ; and ho
says that I must succeed, just because .... We understand
one another, dear posterity, do we not ?
"You must begin next year," said the illustrious leader
of the Folies-Julian.
Yes, it is settled ; and you will see, old father Julian, that
I have something in me !
To tell the truth, you encourage me for the sake of the
money I bring the studio, and for the honour I might bring.
But then what does it matter, whether my work be good
or bad, you will be paid all the same ?
You will see, if I am not dead. My heart beats, and I am
in a fever when I think that I have only a few months
longer.
I will work hard, with all my mi^ht, all the time. To-
morrow I will go to Versailles, but if I miss just to go to
Versailles it will not matter — it will mean the loss of one
afternoon in the week at the outside.
Julian has already noticed the renewal of steady work, he
will see I never omit to do my weekly compositions. I have
z 2
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370 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
an album in which I design them, number them, and write
the title and date of each.
Saturday, June 21a£ — I have been crying for nearly
thirty-six hours without stopping. Last night I went to bed
quite worn out
We had two Russians to dinner, Abigink and S£vas-
tianoff, gentlemen-in- waiting on the Emperor, also Tchouma-
koff and Bojidar ; but I was good for nothing. My sceptical
and chaffing wit was gone. I have sometimes lost relatives,
and had other troubles, but I never remember mourning for
anybody so much as for the one who has just died. This is
all the more surprising that after all it ought not to affect me
at all, I ought rather to rejoice.
Yesterday, at twelve, as I was leaving the studio, Julian
sounded the whistle for the maid, who put her ear to the
tube, and directly afterwards said to us in a voice full of
agitation —
" Ladies, M. Julian asks me to inform you that the Prince
Imperial is dead."
I assure you that I uttered a shriek, and sat down on the
coal-box. And they were all talking together.
" A moment's silence, if you please, ladies. This is official
che telegram has Just been received. He has been killed by
the Zulus, so M. Julian tells me."
This rumour had been already circulated, and indeed
when the Estafette was brought to me I perceived in thick
letters the words — Death of the Prince Imperial. I cannot
tell you what a blow it was.
Moreover, to whichever party one may belong, whether
one be French or not, it is impossible to help feeling the
general stupefaction.
This frightful, this premature death, is a terrible thing.
But I will tell you what none of the papers will tell —
namely, that the English are cowards ana murderers. All
this cannot have happened in the natural course ; there must
be one or several guilty wretches infamously bought. Should
a prince, the hope of a party, be exposed to danger ? And a
son, too ? .... No ; I don t think there is a single wild beast
who would not be grieved to think of the mother. The most
appalling sorrows, the most cruel losses, always leave some-
thing, a gleam of light, of consolation and hope Here
there's nothing, ft can be said without fear of contradiction,
that there has never been such a sorrow. It was her fault
that he left ; she bothered him and tormented him, she did
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PARI8, 1879. 371
not give him as much as five hundred francs a month, and
made his life wretched. The young man left on bad terms
with his mother.
Do you see the horror of it all ? Do you see that
woman's state ?
There are mothers as miserable, but not one of them
can have felt the blow so much ; for the pain is made as
many millions of times greater in proportion to the noise
and sympathy or even to the imprecations caused by this
death.
The brute who broke this news to her would have done
better to kill her.
I went to the studio, and Robert Fleury paid me a great
many compliments; but I returned home only to sob
again. Afterwards, I went to Mme. G 's, where every-
body was in mourning and had red eyes — from the lodge-
keeper upwards.
M. Rouher remained for half an hour speechless. We
thought all was over with him ; then he wept perpetually
without stopping. Mme. Rouher had intermittent nysteric
attacks all the evening, shrieking that her husband was dying
and that she would die too.
Mme. G interrupts her, and says, with decision,
"Really, at such times as these people ought to manage to
avoid hysterics .... it is most inconvenient," she aaded,
very seriously.
I was keeping back my tears, as they would not have
understood what was the matter with me ; but I could not
help smiling when I heard Mme. G telling her tale to
some ladies m mourning, and saying that Mme. Kouher, when
she heard the news, fell flat down upon her back. Mourning
is put on for six months. " We shall, no doubt, be sick of it
before that time ; but the first days, you understand !...."
Those English have always been horrid to the Bona-
5 artists, who nave always been stupid enough to go to that
espicable England, which I hold in perfect hatred. Do
we not become very enthusiastic, very tearful, over a novel ?
Can we help being moved to our soul's depths by this
frightful catastrophe, by this terrible, odious, ana heartrending
death ? It struck me at once that C would turn towards
the family of Jerome, and that was exactly what happened.
In short, here is a whole party out in the cold. They want a
prince even for the sake of appearances, and I think they will
keep together. Some of them, those who have least com-
promised themselves, will go over to the Republic; but the
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372 MARIE BASHKIKTSEFF.
others will continue to support some shadow or other. But
who can tell ? When the King of Rome died, was it not
thought that all was at an end ?
To die ? at such a moment. To die at the age of twenty-
three, killed by savages ; and fighting for the English ! I
should think that his most cruel enemies must feel a sort of
remorse in their inmost hearts.
I have read all the papers, even the insulting ones, and I
have bathed them in my tears. Were I French, and a man
and Bonapartist, I could not be more shocked and outraged
or more distressed.
To think of this boy driven away by the low jokes of the
dirty radical papers; to think of him being attacked and
murdered by savages !
The cries he must have uttered, his despairing calls for
help, the suffering, the horror of his helplessness ! Dying
in a horrible unknown corner, forsaken and almost betrayed /
But why so all alone, and with the English too! .
And his mother.
And the English papers have the infamy to insinuate
that there was no danger in the place where they were
reconnoitring. Can there be any security in such a country
for a small party amidst savage enemies ?
One must be a fool or an idiot to believe it But read
the detailed accounts. He was left there for three days,
and that wretched Carey only noticed that the Prince
was missing when it was too late.
When he caught sight of the Zulus he fled with the
others, without troubling himself about the Prince.
No, it is awful to see it in print in their papers and
to think that this nation has not been exterminated, that
their confounded island cannot be annihilated with all its
cold, barbarous, perfidious, and infamous inhabitants 1 Oh !
if it had been in Russia, our soldiers would have sacrificed
themselves to the last man !
And these scoundrels forsook him and betrayed him !
Only read the details and see if you are not struck
with so much infamy and cowardice! Is it right to run
away and forsake one's comrades?
And will they not hang Lieutenant Carey ?
And the mother, the Empress — poor Empress ! All is
at an end, lost and annihilated. Nothing left but a poor
mother dressed in black.
MoTidxiy, June 23n7. — I am still under the sad in-
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fluence of this terrible event The public has slightly
recovered from the shock, and is wondering through what
criminal imprudence the unhappy young man was left in
the hands of the savagea
The English press deplores the cowardice of the Prince's
companions. And I, who count for nothing, gasp for breath
and the tears fill my eyes when I read the lamentable
accounts. I have never felt so upset, and the efforts I
have been making all day to keep from weeping oppress me.
It is said that the Empress died in tne night, but no
newspaper confirms this fearful but consoling rumour. I
feel such a raging in my heart when I think how easy it
would have been to prevent this crime, this misfortune,
this infamous occurrence. Troubled faces are still to be
seen in the streets, and some of the newswomen are in
tears. I am crying too, though I admit that I can't
account for it. I snould so like to be in real mourning
with crape, it would be in keeping with my spirits.
" What is it to you ? " they would ask. 1 don't know,
but it makes me very sad.
There is no one here. I am shut up in my own room.
. I shall not have to act a part, so I burst into tears, which
is idiotic, for it weakens my eyes ; I felt the effects of it
this morning as I worked. But I cannot be calm when I
think of the fatal and truly frightful circumstances which
accompany the Prince's death, and of the cowardice of his
companions.
It would Itave been so easy to have avoided it !
Wednesday, Jtdy 2nd, — Having read other depositions
of English soldiers, I came to the studio so upset that I
could do nothing but scratch my painting ana take my
departure. Between this and Saturday I shall have time
to do a profile of Dina, who has grown as beautiful as
I have grown plain.
Wednesday, July 16th. — I am singularly weary ; I have
heard that the typhoid fever begins in that way.
I have had had dreams. If I were to die ? I am
Suite astonished that I do not tremble at the thought of
eath. If there is another life it must certainly be better
than the life I lead here on earth. And if tnere should
be nothing after death? That would be all the more
reason for not being terrified, and for desiring the end of*
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374 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
troubles without greatness, and torments without glory. I
must make my will
I begin to work at eight o'clock in the morning, and
at about five I am so tired that my evening is wasted ;
in fact, I must make my will.
Monday, July 21st. — Decidedly we have no summer
it becomes colder and colder.
Our model this week for the whole day is a red-haired
woman of astounding beauty — limbs like a statue, and
a complexion such as I have never seen. She will not
remain a model long, so we greedily take advantage of
the time she is here.
Sunday, Auquat 3rd. — My dog, Coco II., has disappeared.
This happened while we were at the theatre. I was
surprised^ at not seeing him dash to meet me when I re-
turned, and I went to see if he were with the others.
Then I was told that he was lost You think nothing of
that, but I, who loved the creature dearly, who had named
it before its birth, and who had become as much attached
to it as it was to me ! . . .
But you cannot understand what a grief this is to me.
The dog never left me when I was at work. . . My
people, who know that I am pained, keep mournfully silent.
Mamma has been running about all the evening.
On coming home, I went out again to beg some police-
men to bring him back if they found him.
All the servants were told they that must find the dog or
leave their situations. This is the fourth dog in one year
First of all Pincio, then Coco L, a week ago Niniche, and
yesterday my dog.
Monday, August Wi. — I could not go to sleep. That
poor little dog was constantly before my eyes — still so timid
that he ran away from the concierge, not knowing where
to eo.
I even shed a few tears, and then asked God to let me
find him again. I have a particular prayer which I
whisper to myself when I want to ask for something. I
don't remember ever having said this prayer without feel-
ing relieved.
This morning they called me, and brought back my
dog, and the poor wretch was so hungry that he didn't
show so very much joy to see me agaijx
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PARIS, 1879. 375
I had considered him as lost, and my family, to comfort
me, kept telling me that he had been killed.
Mamma exclaims that it is a real miracle, for it is the
first time we have found a lost dog. She would be much
more surprised if I told her of my prayer, but I only
mention that here, feeling dissatisfied in doing so. There
are thoughts and prayers of so private a character that
when they are repeated or written they make us appear
stupid and ridiculous.
Saturday, August 9th. — To go or not to go ? The
boxes are packed. My doctor does not seem to have much
faith in tne efficiency of the waters of Mont Dore. But
what matter, I am going for the sake of rest. And when
I come back I must lead a life of amazing activity. I
shall paint all day, and model at night.
Wednesday, August 13th. — We have been at Dieppe
since yesterday, where we arrived at one o'clock in the
morning.
Are all seaside places alike ? I have been to Ostend,
to Calais, to Dover, and I am now at Dieppe. It smells
of tar, boats, cordage, and tarpaulin. It is windy, you are
exposed on all sides, and feel like a vessel in distress. It
recalls sea-sickness. How different to the Mediterranean !
There you can breathe, and have something to look at.
There are no nasty smells as here. I prefer a nice little
nest of verdure like Soden, Schlangenbad, and what Mont
Dore must be.
I come here for fresh air. Ah ! well yes, no doubt the
air is better when you get out of the town and the port.
None of these northern seas please me, and the sea is
only visible from the third floor of any of the hotels.
Nice, O San Remo, O Naples, O Sorrento ! ! ! You are
not vain words, exaggerated and profaned by the praise of
the guide-books. You are really beautiful and divine ! ! !
Saturday, August 16th. — We laugh a good deal, and I
am very much bored, but it is my nature to laugh, and my
laughter has nothing to do with the humour I am in. I
used to take an mterest formerly in looking at the
passers-by in a watering-place — it amused me.
I have become perfectly indifferent, and do not care
whether I have men or dogs around me. I enjoy myself
best of all when I am alone, playing or painting. I expected
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376 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
my life to be something quite different to what it is, but
since it has not turned out as I had hoped, I care not what
happens. It cannot be denied that I have always been
Tuesday, August 19th. — I took my first sea bath, and
one thing with another makes me wish for an excuse to
cry. I would rather be dressed as a mussel fisher than
wear the dress of a bourgeoise. But after all, mine is an
unhappy nature. I should wish for an exquisite harmony
in every detail of life. Things which are considered elegant
and beautiful often shock me by some lack of art or grace,
or of an indescribable something. I should like to see
my mother elegant, witty, or at least dignified and proud.
. . . Oh, wretched existence ! why should one oe so
tormented ? . . .
You call these trifles? . . . Everything is relative, and
if a pin hurts you as much as a knife, what have sages to
say to that?
Wednesday, August 20th. — I do not think I shall ever
have a sensation which is not mixed with ambition. I
despise people who are nobodies.
Thursday, Atcaust 21st. — This morning I went to make
a sketch of Mother Justin, who is seventy-three years of
age, and who has had nineteen children. She deals in sand.
People crowded round, but I pretended not to see any of
them, then a company of soldiers came to do some sort of
exercise on the beach, and soon afterwards there was a
driving rain ; but I will go back to-morrow. It amuses
me so to study in the open air. These pictures will make
my study look chic.
I hope you understand that I affect no artistic get-up
nor any of the silly ways of people who smudge without
talent and dress like artists.
Dieppe, Friday, August 22nd. — O sublime Balzac!
You are the greatest genius of the world ; in whichever
direction we turn, we always find ourselves in your sublime
comedy. You seem to have always lived and copied from
nature. I have just seen two women, who by their origin,
their looks, and their life, reminded me of Balzac, this great,
unfathomable, and wonderful genius.
My people have just returned from the theatre. Mme.
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DIEPPE, 1879. 377
de S is said to be very plain ; and that is the general
opinion.
How is it that I think her so charming? I allow that
she is not pretty, but with iny artist's eye, I am charmed by
a certain curve of the lips ana by her nose which is so finely
chiselled. She has no lines on her cheeks nor wrinkles
under the eyes, and her manners are exquisite.
Friday, Aiigtist 29th. — Fatalism is the religion of the
idle and desperate. I am desperate, and I swear to you
that I do not care for life. I should not utter this triviality
if I only felt this occasionally, but it is my constant thought
even in joyous moments. I do not fear death ; if there is
nothing after it, all is simple enough, and if there is
another life I recommend myself to God. I do not ex-
pect to go to heaven, for there one is bound to endure the
same torments as here below.
Monday, September 1st, — I hope you have noted the
change that has little by little been going on in me. I
have become serious and sensible, and then I am getting a
better hold of certain notions. I now understand many
things that I used not to understand, and of which I
talked at random, without being convinced. I have dis-
covered this morning, for instance, that a great affection
for an idea is possible, and that we can love it as we love
ourselvea
The devotion to princes and to dynasties touches and
kindles me, it makes me weep, and might, under the direct
impulse of something affecting, drive me to action ; but in
my inmost soul there is a something which absolutely
prevents me from approving of myself m these movements
of the heart
Whenever I think of great men who have served other
men, my admiration for them halts and disappears. This
is perhaps a silly vanity, but I almost despise all these . . .
servants, and I am really only royalist by putting myself in the
King's place. Gambetta, for instance, is not a man of vulgar
ambition ; and the conviction which makes me think this
must be strong and well-founded, or I could not say it
with sincerity after studying the reactionary press for three
years.
As far as I am concerned I might tolerate the idea of
bowing before kings, but I cannot quite adore or esteem
a man who would do it.
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378 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
It is not that I refuse the honours ... no ; be it under-
stood, I should be delighted to become the wife of an attache
to an embassy or a court. (But all these people need
dowries, and are on the look-out for them.)
I am speaking here only of my inmost thoughts.
It is what I have always thought, but one cannot always
express one's thoughts. I approve of a constitutional
monarchy, as in England or Italy, and even then it revolts
me to see these bows to the royal family — it is an unneces-
sary humiliation. When the king is sympathetic, like Victor
Emmanuel, who represented and served a great idea, or like
Queen Marguerite, who is adorable and kind, it is not so
bad, but these are fortunate accidents. It would be much
more natural to have an electoral chief, naturally sym-
pathetic on that account, and surrounded by an intelligent
aristocracy.
The aristocracy cannot be destroyed, nor can it be created
in one day ; it must keep itself up, but need not necessarily
hedge itself in with stupiaity.
The andens rdgimes are the negation of progress and
intelligence !
We exclaim against certain individuals, but of what use is
that ? Men pass away, and when they are no longer wanted,
they can be shelved. It is said that there are many black
sheep among the Republican party. I told you months ago
my opinion on this matter.
I near them talk of absurd hatred against the persons of
kings ; but that's not the question. It is not the man who is
bad, but the office which is useless.
I respect illustrious families ; they have been, they are, and
they will be ; they ought to be honoured by their country, but
that's different from being stupidly and irrevocably saddled
with one man and his posterity. But no, none of that ; I say
nothing against the power of race, rather the contrary.
Csesarism copies the Romans. Why copy ? If the people
are deceived by intrigues and disloyal manoeuvres, it will be
their own fault. But with hereditary kings, the people dis-
penses with all efforts of intelligence, and has not even the
chance of choosing well once in ten times. It's all un-
certainty, routine, imbecility, and cowardice. If the people
are stupid, and choose badly, they deserve nothing better.
These remarks are replies to things which are often said
against the Republic.
But to be clear. . . . My Republic is an enlightened,
polished, and aristocratic Republic. How can I express it ? . . .
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PARIS, 1879. 379
Athenian, he called it*
Wednesday, September 3rd. — The arrival of the political
exiles, flaunting red caps and sashes, is a bad thing. These
people ought never to have been brought back. They had
become accustomed to live out there, and they will now be
strangers here. God only knows what complications may
arise from this return of nusbands or wives after ten years'
absence !
I have no time to tell you my attitude towards the opinion
which demanded this return.
Paris, Wednesday, September 17th. — To-day is a Wednes-
day, a favourable day ; a 17th, a date still more favourable, on
which I am beginning to prepare myself for sculpture. I
made inquiries as to studios.
Robert Fleury came yesterday to the school; there was
not much to correct, so he gave me some good advice,
exhorting me to work out the painter's side, in which I have
hitherto been deficient, in spite of my qualities of compo-
sition, drawing, character, likeness, &c. And now, instead of
drawing, I am going to model by gaslight. You understand.
I do not neglect colour, for I paint while there is daylight, and
as soon as it has gone I inodeL Is that, settled ? Yes,
certainly.
I went for a walk with Amanda (the stout Swede),
and she told me of her visit to Tony (who was very nice
to me yesterday), and with whom she talked about all
the pupils. He told her that A would always fail in
drawing and construction, &c. The fact is, she produces
absurd pictures — swollen heads and crooked eyes, &c. As
for Breslau, he said that she has not made enough pro-
gress, and Julian added that her talent is nothmg but
perseverance. Emma is clever, but lazy, and she has wild
ideas. And myself, extremely talented, and, at the same
time, studious, hard-working, and serious; astonishing and
rapid progress ; very good drawings ; in short, " a concert
of praises." Then it must be true, since they say so to
strangers. Anyhow, it gives me courage, and I will work
more, and better.
* Aristocratic — this requires reflections and explanations. Aristocracy of
race absolutely confirmed by manners and education, in default of intelligence.
Yes, for in social relations these are things, the influence of which cannot be
denied. Besides, there is only one equality possible, it is equality bofore the
law ; all other equalities are wretched farces invented by the enemies of liberty,
and demanded by the ignorant.
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380 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
I long to go into the country, real country, with trees,
grass, and a park, full of verdure, as at Schlangenbad, or even
Soden, instead of that dull and barren Dieppe. And they
say I don't love the country! I don't like the country in
Russia, the neighbours, the house, &c. . . . but I adore the
trees and the pure air so much, that I wish I could spend
a fortnight in some very green and very fragrant corner.
How I should like to go to Rome ! But of Rome I seldom
speak, even in this journal ; the subject excites me too
much, and I wish to remain calm.
It was in crossing the Tuileries gardens that I was seized
with thoughts of country life. But how can I help it ? I love
the country as much as I hate the bare and windy beaches
.... But to go to Switzerland for a fortnight with my
family would be a terrible bore. Worries, recriminations,
and all the accessories of domestic happiness.
Wethiesday, Octolwr 1st — Here are some papers, and
I have just been reading the two hundred pages which
compose the first part of Mine. Adam's review.
It has upset me ; and I have left the studio at four o'clock
to go for a walk in the " Bois," wearing a new hat, which
makes a sensation, but now I don't care. I find Mrae.
Adam very pleasant
I think you know me well enough to understand the
influence of all these vital questions on my poor mind.
There is nothing to be done in the matter of ancient
fidelity ... I still love violets, but simply as flowers. I
pass on to the Republic, and new ideas.
To-day, here am I, entirely possessed by the Revue
NoxivelU. Who knows whether, at a given moment, I shall
not become enthusiastic over Prince Napoleon, whom I like
better than Napoleon III., and who is really somebody ?
You must understand that I am not joking, and that I
am as advanced as it is possible to be. We must move
with the times, especially when we really feel the desire
and irresistible need to do so.
Saturday, October llth. — I left off the head in the
middle of the week, consequently, when Robert Fleury was
passing from the large studio to the small one, I hid behind the
cloaks ; but he saw me, and made me a friendly reproach, and
as I was replying he walked on, shaking his head and look-
ing back at me, which caused him not to look in front of
him, and to flatten his nose against the door, and me to
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PARI8, 1879. 381
laugh. So he was very cold to me when correcting my
torso, and said not a word in its favour ; another time I
might have had a little more success. So here I am,
miserable, distracted, offended, mined, and if Julian had
not comforted me a little about the composition, I should
have thrown myself on the floor in despair. Every Saturday
costs me dear in emotion! .... If the professors could
suspect the torments I suffer, they would not have the heart
to say nothing.
Saturday, October 29th. — My painting is much, much
better. Yesterday we did the "one hour sketch" for our
places, and this morning they are laid out in the little
room where they shut up Tony ; but he absolutely refuses
to number them, saying tnat it is impossible, that the work
of one hour is nothing, and that he is quite willing to
number them at haphazard with his back turned. If this
is not very serious, it is rather amusing, for we were listening
at the door.
" Mademoiselle Marie," said he, " you are young ; I could
just as well have placed you first ; tnis does not mean any-
thing ; another time you must give me your week's studies,
according to which I will place you ; there's no sense in
this."
With No. 3 I shall have a very good place for the com-
petition.
Gambetta has come back to Paris.
Thursday, October 30th. — France is a charming and
amusing country with its riots, revolutions, fashions, wit,
beauty, and elegance — everything, in short, that gives charm
and piquancy to life. But do not look for either a serious
government or a virtuous man (in the classical sense of
the word) — no, nor a love-marriage .... nor even for
true art The French painters are very fine; but, except
G^ricault (and at this moment Bastien-Lepage), the divine
afflatus is wanting. And never, never will France produce
what Italy and Holland have produced in a special kind.
A beautiful country for gallantry and pleasure, but for
the rest .... However, it always has a something, while
other countries, with their solid and respectable qualities,
are sometimes tiresome. But if I complam of France, it is
because I am not married. . . . For young girls, France
is an infamous country, and that is not saying too much.
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382 MARIE BASEKLRTSEFF.
There could not be more cold cynicism in the uniting
of two animals than is seen here in marrying a man ana
woman.
Commerce, traffic, speculation, are honourable words when
properly applied, but they are infamous when applied to
marriage; and yet there are no .words more appropriate to
describe French marriages.
Saturday, November 8th. — I have finished the portrait of
the Portere88 t and it is very like her. It causes immense
pleasure in the lodge, the daughter, son-in-law, granddaughters,
and sisters, are all in raptures.
Unfortunately, Tony has not shared this enthusiasm. He
has commenced by saving that it is not bad .... adding,
" this isn't going as well as it should."
There is no denying that I have more talent for drawing
than for painting. The drawing, construction, form, all that
comes of itself ; but the pictorial side does not develop with
equal facility. He does not like me to lose my time in this way.
I must get out of this, I must do something to remedy it.
"You are daubing, that is evident, and as you are ex-
tremely talented, and nave great prospects, it annoys me."
" It does not please me either, Monsieur, but I don't know
how to change it."
"I have long wished to speak to you on the subject.
You must try in every way, perhaps it is only a question
of finding an outlet."
" Tell me what I must do, a copy, a plaster cast, or a still-
life piece ? I will do anything that you tell me."
" You will do all that I tell you. Oh, well then, we shall
get out of it Come and see me next Saturday, and we will
talk about it."
I ought to have gone to him on a Saturday long before
this, all the pupils do so. Certainly he is a good fellow.
Monday, November 10th. — I went to church yesterday. I
go from time to time, so that it may not be said that I am a
Nihilist.
I often say, for fun, that life is only a transit I wish
I could really believe it, it would console me through all
these miseries, all these brutish griefs, these ignoble slights.
The whole world is so given to mischief-makers. It is by
feeling this disgust and astonishment for every-day tittle-tattle
that I discover that I am free from all these nauseating
pettinesses.
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PARIS, 1879. 383
Friday, November 14th. — If for several days I say nothing,
it is because there is nothing interesting to say.
Until now, I have been charitable to my kind; I have
never said nor repeated the evil that people talk; I have
always defended any one attacked in my presence, always
with the interested notion that perhaps as much might
be done for me. I have always defended even those I did
not know, at the same time praying to God to have it
repaid to me. I have never seriously had an idea of in-
juring anybody, and if I desired fortune or power it was
with ideas of generosity, goodness, and charity, the greatness
of which astonish me ; but it doesn't succeed.
I will, of course, continue to give twenty sous to a beggar
in the street, because these people always bring tears mto
my eyes; but I really think I shall become bad It would
be beautiful, however, to remain good, though soured and
miserable. But it would be amusing to become spiteful, ill-
natured, slanderous, and mischievous. . . . Since it is just
the same to God, and He takes no account of anything.
Furthermore, we must believe that God is not what we
imagine. God is perhaps Nature itself, and all the events of
life are presided over by chance, which sometimes brings
about strange coincidences and events which make one believe
in a Providence. As for our prayers, our religions, and our
conversations with God .... I am bound to consider them
useless.
To feel an intelligence and a strength capable of moving
heaven and earth, and to be nothing ! I do not call out, but
all these torments are written on my face. People think
when you are silent that there is nothing the matter ; but
those things always will keep coming to the surface.
Saturday, November 15th. — I admire Zola, but there are
things that every one says, and which I cannot resolve to say,
or even to write. However, in order that you shall not think
they are horrors, I will tell you that the worst is the word
ywrgi. I regret to write such a word here. I do not hesitate
to use the word canaille and others of the same sort, but as
to those little innocent nastinesses they disgust me.
Wednesday, November 11MA.— Robert Fleury came this
evening, and besides giving me advice we spent a pleasant
evening together round the samovar m my studio,
especially as he explains to me excellently what to do for
the lamps. Tony is neither paid nor interested, and, besides,
A A
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384 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
he is a serious man ; he repeated to-night what he said to
Mme. Breslau, that in the whole school, only her own daughter
and myself possessed exceptional aptitude. All the others
are worth nothing. It amuses, me to see him thus pass them
all in review, treating their pretensions with such scant
ceremony.
He praises me behind my back only, but he persists
very much in wanting me to continue, adding that I am
certain to succeed ; for an amateur I already have talent,
and that I am right in looking higher ; that with a more
consistent course I should make more progress, that he
will pay special attention to me; that he will come and
give me advice at home; that he advises me not to work
always at the studio, but to take a model home sometimes,
and to model in the evening. He will come and give me
the first hints, and then, one evening, he will bring Chapu
to see me.
In short, I am absolutely under his wing, so to repay
him somewhat I give him an order for my portrait, a
small sized one ; and that is what spoils my nappiness,
for I am afraid it will cost too much.
This man has been most amiable, all the evening
chatting and giving me advice. What bothers me is
doing my copies.
Saturday, November 21s£. — I went to take him my
copy. " It is not yet broad enough, not yet firm enough."
I will do some more next week : two heads by Rubens,
copied by Robert Fleury, senior — a great artist he — and
also a little tiny canvas by the same, but original
As I very much admire the sketch which ne has made
for his ceiling at the Luxembourg, he (Tony) offers it
to me in the most gracious manner, saying that it is a
great pleasure to him to rive it to somebody who can
understand and who appreciates it . .
" But, Monsieur, there cannot be any lack of people who
appreciate your painting." . . .
" Ah, that is not the same thing, not the same thing at
all." . . .
I am already getting bolder, and am now scarcely
afraid of him. After having seen him once or twice a
week for two years at the studio it seems to me quite
fiinny to be talking with him, and that he should help me
on with my pelisse. A little more still and we shall be
a pair of rriends. Were it not for that portrait I should
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PARIS, 1879. 385
be quite happy, for my master is as good as possible
to me.
Monday, November 23rcZ. — We have been to invite
Julian to dinner ; he has made twenty thousand difficulties,
saying that it would take away all his authority over me,
and that we should not get on at all, especially as the
slightest appearance of favour from him to me would look
like shameless nepotism. People would say that we ask
him to dine, and that I do what I like with him because
I am rich, &c. The good man is right. For the rest it
is an excellent system of perfidy. The Spaniard used it
with Breslau, who ended by being rude to me, all through
hearing herself so often cafled my chambermaid.
Tuesday, November 2Uh. — The studio at No. 37 is hired
and nearly furnished.
I have spent the day there ; it is very large, with grey
walls. I have brought to it two bad Gobelins which hide the
lower part of the wall, a Persian carpet, some Chinese mats, a
large square Algerian cushion, a stand for the models,
beautiful draperies, large satinette curtains of soft but warm
colour.
Many casts : the Venuses of Milo, of Medicis, and Niraes ;
the Apollo, the Faun of Naples ; an icorchA, some bas-reliefs,
&c. ; a coat-stand, a fountain, a mirror worth four francs
twenty-five centimes, a clock worth thirty-two francs, a chair,
a stove, an oak table with a drawer and the top arranged as
a colour box ; a complete tea set, an inkstand and a pen, a
pail, a can, a quantity of canvases, some caricatures, some
studies and sketches.
To-morrow I will stick up several drawings on show ; but
I am afraid they will make my paintings look worse. A
flayed arm and leg, life-size, a skeleton, a box of tools, and
then I should still want the Antinoiis.
Wednesday, November 25th. — We have been to see Father
Didon at the Dominican convent Need I tell you that
Father Didon is the preacher whose fame has been
spreading perceptibly for the last two years, and of whom all
Paris is just now talking. He had been informed of our
visit. Directly we arrive they go to call him, and we wait
for him in a reception cell, glazed throughout, with a table,
three chairs, and a good little stove. I had already seen his
portrait yesterday, and I knew that he had splendid eyes.
A A 2
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386 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
He appears, looking very agreeable, very much a man of
the world, very handsome in his beautiful white woollen gown,
which reminds me of the dresses I used to wear. But for the
tonsure, his head would be in the style of Cassagnac's, but
more enlightened, the eyes more frank, the attitude more
natural though very lofty ; a face which is beginning to look
coarse and which has the same disagreeably crooked look
about the mouth as Cassagnac's ; but with a great air of
distinction ; having no ultra Creole charm about him, with an
ivory complexion, a fine forehead, his head erect, hands
adorably white and beautiful, a gay air, and as much as is
possible, a jolly good fellow. You would like to see him with
a moustacne.
Much ready wit in spite of great assuranca One can see
very plainly that he knows the full extent of his popularity,
that ne is accustomed to receive adoration, and that he is
sincerely delighted with the sensation he causes around him.
Mother M had naturally told him beforehand by letter
what a wonder he was going to see, and we talk to him
about painting his portrait
He has not refused, but said that it would be difficult,
almost impossible, for a young lady to paint Father Didon's
portrait He is so conspicuous, and so much sought after.
But that is the very reason, idiot! .... 1 have been
introduced as his fervent admirer. I had never seen him, nor
heard him ; but I imagined him just as he is, with his
inflexions of voice passing from caressing tones to almost
terrible outbursts, even m ordinary conversation. It is a
Fortrait that I feel thoroughly, and if it could be managed
should be a most fortunate person. He has promised
to come and see us, and for a moment I wished that he
might not keep his promise, but that is stupid and false.
What I wish for at present is that he may consent to sit.
Nothing in the world would suit me better as an ambitious
artist
Thursday, November 26th. — We go out in a sledge with
Mme. G .
The evening ends up in farce. The ladies, the princess,
Alexis and Blanc, go to the Vari6t£s, while Dina, the Count
de Toulouse, and myself, take out a champagne supper from
the cupboard, and, after having supped, we arrange four
covers to have it thought that there is company, and I pour
white wine and water into the empty champagne bottle, wnich
I cork carefully ; the same trick for the fate gras which I
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PARIS, 1879. • 387
fasten up again. They will all be coming home to supper.
May they have good appetites !
Sunday, December 14>th. — Bertha called for me, and,
accompanied by Bojidar, we went on foot to explore the
Quartier Latin, Place Saint-Sulpice, Rue Mouffetard, Rue de
Nevers, the Morgue, Rue des Anglais, &c.
We took the tramway for a quarter of an hour, and
then we began walking again; this lasted from three to
seven o'clock. There is nothing so adorable as old Paris;
it reminds me of Rome and Dumas' novels, and Notre-
Dame de Paris with Quasimodo, and a heap of delightful
and ancient things.
We have bought some chestnuts at a street corner, and
we then spent twenty minutes at a sockseller's, where we
spent nearly nine francs, and then at another's, who nearly
abused us for beating her down : — " What, Madame, you
make a fuss over seven francs, and you do not hesitate to
give two hundred francs for a fur cloak ! " — I was wearing
one worth two thousand francs.
At the corner of a street, as our socks make no noise,
we let Bojidar go on, and we hide behind a door; but he
soon finds us, and we go to two contractors for removals
to order two four-horse vans for removing M. A 's
furniture.
Bertha quietly gives particulars : two grand pianos, a
bath, wardrobes with plate-glass doors, china, a billiard table,
&c. ; then we feel inclined to go in everywhere and talk
nonsense to every one ; it was seven o'clock, however, and
we had to take a cab, but after a few steps the horse falls
down, and we get out. ' They pick up the animal, and we
go on again. Without reckoning that in the tramcar there
was a very simple couple next to us, whom we astonished
by telling each other stories, like that of the young lady
who, in a railway accident, received such a violent shock
that it sent her knees into her chest and out through her
back
Sunday, December 28th. — Paul is to be married, and I
consent, I will tell you why. She adores him, and wishes
very much to marry him. She is of rather a good family,
well known, of the same province, a neighbour, pretty well
off, young, pretty, and, to judge from her letters, good-
natured. And then she is anxious for it. It is thought
that she is a little bit elated because Paul is the son of
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388 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
a Mardckal de Noblesse, and has fashionable relatives at
Paris. All the more reason why I should consent
Thanks to Rosalie's carelessness my letter to Paul
never reached him. Mamma has consented, the girl has
sent her the following telegram :
" Pleased, delighted, my deepest thanks to your mother ;
come back as soon as possible —
Alexandrine."
They say that the poor little thing dreads the Paris
family, and me, so proud, so haughty, and so hard. No, I
am not the one to say " No " ; for never having loved as
she loves, I will not take it on my conscience to cause
annoyance to anybody. It is easy enough to say that
we are on the point of turning ill-natured ; but, when the
occasion comes for causing pain to a fellow-creature we do
not think twice about it If I have worries, shall I cure
myself by worrying others ? It is not at all out of good-
ness that I am kind, but because I should have it on
my conscience, and it would torment me. Really selfish
people ought never to do anything but good ; in doing evil
one is too unhappy. It seems, however, that there are
people who love to do harm .... Each one to his tastes.
Especially as Paul will never be anything more than a
gentleman fanner.
Wednesday, December 31st. — I must be sickening for
some illness. I feel so low that I could cry for nothing.
After leaving the studio we went to the Louvre shops. It
would need a Zola to describe the teasing, busy, disgusting
crowd, running, pushing one another ; those noses in the air,
those searching eyes. I felt faint with heat and nervousness.
Mamma sends to the beautiful Alexandrine Pachtenko (God
forgive me !) a simple and appropriate letter, and the
following is what I wrote to her on white smooth paper,
on which was a little " M " surmounted by a gold coronet : —
" Dear Demoiselle, — My brother will bring you
mamma's consent. For myself, I send all good wishes for
your happiness, and I hope you will make our dear Paul
as happy as he deserves to be. Awaiting the pleasure of
seeing you amongst us, I embrace you cordially.
"Marie Bashkirtseff."
What else can I say ? Paul with his herculean figure and
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PARI8, 1879. 889
good looks could make a better marriage. He makes this
for the sake of the girl, so I accept it What a wretched
end of the year! ... I think I will go to bed at eleven
so as to sleep at midnight instead of boring myself . . .
with telling my fortune.
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390
CHAPTER VIII.
PARIS, MONT DORE, 188U.
Thursday, January 1st. — I went to the studio in
the morning, so that having worked on the first day
of the year I may work all through the year. After-
wards we went out to pay some calls, and then to the
Bois.
Paul went away this evening at seven o'clock Mamma
went alone with him to the station ; the train is too affecting.
I let him go without more emotion than if he had been
going to town; and if I had gone to the station I should
certainly have cried.
Saturday, January 3rd. — I cough very much, but, for a
wonder, far from diminishing my good looks, it gives me
a languid air which suits me.
Monday, January 5th. — Well, I am going on badly.
I begin work again ; but as I have not had a complete
change I feel a profound languor and discouragement
And the time for the Salon is approaching! I go to talk
it all over with the great Julian, and we are of opinion,
especially he, that I am not prepared for it.
Let us see ; I have been workmg for two years and four
months, without deducting lost time nor travelling. It is
little, but it seems enormous. I have not worked enough,
I have lost tiuie, I have slackened! ... In a word, I
am not ready. "The prickings of a pin drive you mad,"
sajs Edmond, "but you can stand a well-directed blow
with a club." It is true. The everlasting comparison . . .
Breslau. She commenced in June, 1875 — that makes four
years and a half, and two years at Zurich or at Munich,
total, six years and a half, without deducting travelling or
lost time, as in my case. She had been painting for
rather more than two years when she exhibited. It is a
year and four months since I commenced painting, and I
shall not be able to exhibit with as much honour
as she.
Oh, for myself, I should not care— I could wait I
have courage, and if I am told to wait a year I reply
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PARIS, 1880. 391
with sincerity, " Very well." But my " friends — but my
family — they will no longer believe in me! I might
exhibit, but what Julian wanted was that I should paint
such a portrait as would cause a sensation, and I shall
succeed out indifferently. That's what it is to ride the
high horse. There are some in the studio five times less
advanced than I am, who have exhibited, and nothing has
been said, it is true. But I . . . Why do I do it ?
. . " You do not want to give lessons, nor to receive an
order at fifty or a hundred franca You want to make a
sensation. To exhibit anything as the others do, well, it
is unworthy of you."
This is also my opinion. But what of my friends, my
family, and Russia ! . . .
You see, Julian says that I draw ten times better than
Manet, and then he adds, that I do not know how to
draw. You ought to do more.
Ah ! as for Trie, I am very much bothered, and I try to
get out of it.
Mme. G comes to inquire about me, for, as you
know, I have a beast of a cold.
Saturday, January Vlth. — The doctor says my cough
is purely nervous. It is possible, for I have not got a
cola: I have neither a sore throat nor a pain in my
chest I simply can't breathe, and I have a stitch in my
right side. 1 come in at eleven o'clock, wishing all the
while that I might fall seriously ill, so as not to go to
the ball I dress myself! I look beautiful!
Tuesday, January 2,0th. — I come home from the studio
and learn tnat Mme. G has been here, expecting to find
me confined to my room, and she is furious that I am not
nursing myself as old people do.
The tickets promised for to-morrow have been given to
Mme. de Rothschild.
I would willingly give ten thousand francs for a permanent
pass. Not to have any longer to ask for tickets; to be
mdependent ! Oh ! barren aspiration, barren and miserable
intrigue; sterile discussions with my family, sterile evenings
spent in talking of what I should like, without a step being
taken to bring it about ! Sterile and miserable efforts !
Saturday, January 91st. — To-night (Saturday), concert
and ball in aid of the sufferers from the floods at Murcia,
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392 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
at the H6tel Continental, under the patronage of Queen
Isabella, who, after being present at the concert, came down
to the ball-rooms, where she remained for an hour.
I don't care over much for dancing, and to find myself thus
in men's arms does not particularly amuse me. ki fact, I
am quite indifferent to it, for I could never at all understand
the emotions caused by waltzing which they speak of in
no vela, '
I think only of those who are looking at me when I am
dancing.
Thursday .February 5th. — I should always like to spend
my time like to-day — working from eight o'clock till twelve,
and from two till five. At five, the lamp is brought in, and I
draw till half-past seven.*
To dress from half-past seven to eight, dine at eight
o'clock, then read, and to go to sleep at eleven.
I own, that from two till half-past seven, without stopping,
is rather tiring.
Tuesday, February 106&— I have had a. long interview
with father Julian about my picture for the Salon. I have
submitted to him two proposals, which he approves. I will
draw them both, that wjU take three days, ana then we will
choose. I am not advanced enough to succeed brilliantly with
the portrait of a man— an unsatisfactory subject ; but I can
Jaint a figure (life size, of course), and the nude, which, as
ulian says, attracts me as it does all those who have a
consciousness of power. This man amuses me ; he builds
up a future for me ; he will make me do this and that if I am
good, and since our last interview I have been good. Next
year it must be the portrait of a celebrated man, and a
Eicture. " I wish you to rise from the ranks with a
ound."
For this year, I, the " inventor," have thought of this — A
woman at a table, her chin resting on her hand, and her elbow
on the table, reading a book ; a bright light falling on her
beautiful fair hair. Title: "La Question du Divorce" by
Dumas. This book has just appeared, and the question
excites everybody.
The other subject is simply Dina in a skirt of white crepe
de Chine, sitting in a large antique chair, with listless arms
and fingers interlaced. A very simple attitude, but so graceful
that I hastened to sketch her one evening when she was
sitting thus quite by chance, and I was wanting to get her
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PARIS, 1880. 393
into position. It has a slight suggestion of La Steamier, and
that the chemise may not be too indecent, I will add a
coloured sash. What pleases me in this second subject is
the complete simplicity, and the pretty bits to paint. Cm ! it's
a real pleasure.
To-day I feel elated; I feel quite superior, great, happy
and clever. In short, I believe in my future, that's all
Monday, February 16th. — We go to see the Queen, who is
very gracious.
I am still on the look-out for a lot of things for my
picture.
To-night, at the Th£&tre-Fransais, the first performance of
Sardou's Daniel Eochat Quite an event We have an excel-
lent box with six seats. A brilliant house, plenty of people,
and the representatives of the Government
As to the play, I must see it again ; -it seems to me that
it contains tedious passages and that the dialogue is too
Swiss in style. But there was so much noise and applause ;
people whistled, applauded, and protested so much, that one
neard only half of it. The hero is a great orator, a sort of
atheistic Gambetta ; the heroine is an Anglo-American
Protestant young lady, liberal and republican — but a
believer.
You can imagine what an effect this subject may
produce just now.
Wednesday, February 25th. — In hunting after models at
L^onie's I make the acquaintance of nearly all the honour-
able Baudouin family. It is pure Zola, the Zola of Nana ;
and indeed this is the name I give to L£onie. A mixture
of naivete . . . and of astonishing depravity.
At present she is not sitting. " I used to sit when I
didn't know what I was doing, but it is not respectable to
sit. I am in a costumier's ; I don't find it amusing, you
know, but he wishes it"
" Who ? "
"My friend
And her sister tells me that she is crazy about him,
especially since he has taken to beating her.
Sunday, February 29th. — Julian came to see my picture.
He is very pleased with it, and has spoken about it to
Tony, who is very . . . very busy, but wno will come with
pleasure when I send for him.
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394 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Wednesday, March 3rd. — Now I must go out no more at
night so that I may be able to get up feeling refreshed,
and work from eight o'clock. I have only sixteen days
left.
Friday, March 12th. — Julian came to see my picture ;
he thinks the plush table, the book, and the flowers, are
very good. The rest will come; the whole thing, he says,
is spirited, has go about it, and is bold, almost brutal ; I who
was weeping this morning, came home at six o'clock
consoled and confident .... and I find mamma in tears,
with two telegrams — the first from my father.
If mamma goes to-morrow Dina is to go with her ;
I have only seven days ; I shall never find a model ; even
if I find one to-morrow I shall have only six days, and it
won't be possible.
Then I am done for, and I will not hide from you
that I am crying with vexation and because I succeed with
nothing. An idea strikes me, a sensational subject, which
might oe effective in spite of imperfection in its execution ;
which would give me this year what I could hardly have
expected in the coming one . . . and all is lost Every-
thing goes to ruin. The work half finished, the tide in my
affairs, all lost without return. This is downright ill-luck.
Judge me as you please. Paul's romances left me calm, but
this makes me desperate and exasperates me. I don't know
how to explain it, there is something more than selfishness
in it Ana even if it should be selfishness, I am unfortunate
enough and forsaken enough to be egoistic.
Then all my dreams for this year vanish. Wait again!
... A whole year. Do you think that little ? I nave
so many daily causes of suffering now; I hoped to find
some comfort in my painting, and that's the way it turns
out
And my poor painting sacrificed, my ambitions dis-
appointed, the pleasure I might have had, lost or postponed,
will that console or save Paul and his fiancee over there ?
Sacrifices and troubles are three times more painful
when unnecessary.
Now it's all spoiled, and made a mess o£ As for
them, it will all come right, they will marry; a month
sooner or later is of no consequence, and if the marriage
does not take place perhaps it will be fortunate for both
of them. While for me here, promptitude is urgent A
week's delay and I am a year behindhand. But what can I
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PARIS, 1880. 395
do ? It is perhaps absurd, but I am disheartened enough
to cry about it hist as I did about the Prince Imperial.
People will think I am fretting about Paul, the idiots !
All of us have interests here oelow ; he has his fiancee,
his love, and a small property at Poltava; with me it is
another thing — quite another thing — which seems to hold
all I desire, all that I lack, all human joys, all happiness,
all satisfactions. And must I wait another year still, I, for
whom, more than for any one on earth, life is a race !
Monday, March 15th. — Unnecessary tragedies. All is
arranged; on Saturday we received reassuring telegrams;
there is nothing serious the matter.
I have written to ask Tony to come, and I am very
frightened.
I so dread what Tony may say. I feel that it is so
presumptuous in me to exhibit, though Julian has told me
that if all exhibitors were as advanced as myself, it would be
a very good thing;. I feel that I shall die with shame when
he comes to Iook at my picture. I don't know whether I
shall venture, and still I shall not be able to go away if
he comes.
It seems incredible that I should be talking thus, and still
it is true ! If I said such a thing in public, people would
think I was joking.
Friday, March 19th. — At a quarter to twelve, Tony !
"Why did I not begin earlier? It is very beautiful,
charming ; but what a pity," &c. &c.
In snort, he reassures me, but we must ask for a
delay.
" You could send it as it is, but that it's worth while ;
that is my private and sincere opinion. Ask for more
time, and you will accomplish something good."
Then he pulls up his sleeves, takes the palette, and touches
the picture a little everywhere to make me understand that it
lacks light. But I will work at it again .... if I can get the
delay.
He stayed more than two hours. He is a charming
fellow ; I am much entertained, and feel in such good spirits
that I don't care much what may happen to the picture. In
a word, his few touches are an excellent lesson.
At two o'clock I go in one direction and mamma in
another to see what can be done. I take Dina with me, and
we go to the Chamber of Deputies. I ask for M. Andrieuy
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396 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
(to beg him to recommend my request to M. Turquet, the
Under-Secretary to the Beaux- Arts). I have to wait an hour
in vain. We go to the police office, but he is not there. I
then go to Doctor K with a letter, in which I explain
to him what I want
When I get home I learn that the Prefect of Police has
been to see us, to place himself at our service, and that Julian
is at No. 37 with mamma.
Julian is delighted with the picture.
" You are as strong as a man, nothing astonishes me from
you."
He says all these pretty things before Mme. Simonides,
who had come to see my picture, and before Rosalie in my
absence.
I am quite elated and joyous even before I hear the result
of mamma's proceedings with Gavini, who has written to
Turauet In tact, I have been allowed the delay — a delay of
six days. I do not exactly know whom to thank, but to-night
I go to the opera with the Gavinis. I thank father Gavini,
as I think it is to him that I owe it. I feel radiant, trium-
phant, and happy.
No, but my picture ! Julian raves about it ; Tony also has
found it good, m tone, harmonious, beautiful, forcible ; and
Julian adas that it is bewitching, and that the Swedish
colourists at the studio are fools to think that beautiful
colour consists in some particular process.
" Here's a creature wno has done a pleasing thing, but not
pleasing in the sense of pretty ; no, something that takes
you by storm."
So I shall finish it.
A tremendous day.
Saturday, March 20tL — I go out to finish the formalities
of the bulletins, &c. At the Salon there is a crowd, and
pictures, and carts, and artists. I go to the Under-Secretary
of State to ask him to sign my bulletin, the delay being
accorded to Mile. Bashkirtseff, wnereas my picture is signed
" Russ."
Turquet is very nice ; he tells me that he has heard of my
picture. Then .... In short, I cannot remember exactly
all the places I went to.
Sunday, March 2\st. — Saint-Marceaux comes to advise
me. I like him, but he leaves a feeling of uneasiness in me.
He looks absent, he walks quickly, speaks quickly. A bundle
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PARIS, 1880. 397
of nerves. I am like that, too ; but he leaves me all the same
a feeling of uneasiness, although he spoke well of my painting.
But there, when people say nothing I am dissatisfied, and
when they praise me, 1 imagine that they are treating me as a
little girl, and are making tun of me. Indeed, this evening I
am not in such a mooa as yesterday; that is because the
right arm is too long .... it is two centimetres out, and I,
the severe draughtswoman, am humiliated before a sculptor
like M. de Saint- Marceaux.
Monday, March 22nd. — Tony is astonished that I have
been able to do what I have done in so short a time.
"It is really the first time that you are applying your
studies ? "
" Yes, certainly."
" Well, do you know this is not at all bad."
He takes on his coat, seizes a palette and paints a hand
for me, the lower one, in that whitish shade which is
peculiar to him.
He touched up the hair, which I entirely repainted, as
well as the hand. So he works at the hand, and I am
amused, and we talk.
All the same, excepting the background, the hair, and
the plushes, it is dirty colour. It's all muddled. I can
do better. This is Tony's opinion, but for all that he is
pleased, and says that if there were any possibility of my
picture being refused at the Salon he would be the first
to tell me not to send it. He says he is astonished to see
what I have done ; it is well conceived, well arranged, well
worked out, it is harmonious, elegant, and graceful
Oh yes, yes ! but I am dissatisfied with the flesh ! And
to think that it will be said that it is my style ! It is
muddled. I am obliged to glaze it I who adore bold
and simple painting done at the first stroke. I assure
you that it costs me a great deal to exhibit a thing when
I feel so dissatisfied with its execution ; something so different
from my usual style .... it is true I have never done
anything yet that has pleased me .... but in short it is
dirty, it is patched. Tony says that Breslau shows this time
the influence of Bastien-Lepage. She feels my influence as I
feel hers. Tony is as good as possible. And to say that
I could have done better ! Confounded modesty ! Cursed
want of confidence! If I had not been hesitating and
asking mvself, To be or not to be ! . . . Let us not
commit the folly of lamenting over what is done.
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306 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
I don't know why I am thinking of Italy to-night These
are burning thoughts which I always try to avoid I have
given up my Roman readings because they excite me too
much, and I fall back on the French Revolution or Greece.
But Rome and Italy. When I think of that sun, that air
and the rest of it, I feel crazy. Even Naples. . . . Oh,
Naples, in the evening. . . . And the curious part is that
there is not a man in the case. When I think that I
might go it maddens me. So much so that the scenery
of MasanieUo causes me a sort of emotion.
Wednesday, March 24th. — Tony has come, but does not
meddle with my painting. At six o'clock we are still
talking.
"Tnere certainly will be many things at the Salon,"
says Tony, "twenty times inferior to this, but there is all
the same no absolute certainty, for the poor jury see
about six hundred pictures a day, and often in cfisgust
refuse a thing in a bad temper; but you have this in
your favour, tnat it's effective, and the tones are pleasant
And then Lefebvre, Laurens, and Bonnat are quite my
friends."
What a nice fellow this Tony is, and I like him all the
better because I don't think he is happy. The influence
of his father's name and his rising talent bring him the
medal of honour in 1870. Then little by little all is
forgotten and disappears, he makes an enemy who, possessing
some influence with Wolff of the Figaro, makes this terrible
journalist hostile to him. Moreover, he does not know
how to blow his own trumpet, and while people like Cot
paint large portraits, and are well paid, he paints small
ones which bring him money but no satisfaction.
This good Tony gave me some sober, but well meant,
encouragement
I can, if I like, have " much talent," he says ; and by
that he does not mean merely, as mamma does, what I
possess already. "Much talent" is what he himself has,
what Bonnat, what Carolus, what Bastien have.
I must make serious studies, and paint torsos at home,
so as to prepare myself for painting portraits. I must not
think of anything except my painting, but give myself up
to that
As regards women, none but Breslau and myself under-
stand the nude so thoroughly. Few artists can draw from
the nude so well as she or I ; in fact, it is very astonishing
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PARIS, 1880. 399
what I have just accomplished in eighteen days, after two
years' study. But I must not be satisfied with results like
those — "not with such satisfaction."
" Monsieur, it was not for myself."
He is quite aware of this ; out I must avoid submitting
to these influences, and look higher to more serious work.
/ can attain wfiatever I wish. Genius is not acquired ;
but to acquire talent, I must work, and, above all, I must
not put any faith in the compliments people pay me ; he
himself says nothing but the truth.
"But, Monsieur, if you said anything else I should be
distressed."
Well, then, I must work* and be diligent, and I shall
attain what I desire.
Thursday, March 25th. — I am giving the finishing touches
to the picture, but I cannot work any more, for there is
nothing more to be done, or else all is to be done over
again. It is finished as an ill-arranged thing. My picture
is some five feet high, with the frame.
The young woman is sitting at a table covered with
plush of a rich old green shade, and is resting on her
right hand, with her elbow on the table; she is reading a
book, near to which is placed a bunch, of violets. The
white of the book, the tone of the plush, and the flowers
beside the bare arm, have a very good effect. The woman
is in a loose dress of very light blue damask, and a fichu
of muslin trimmed with old lace. Her left arm falls naturally
on to her knees, and seems scarcely to hold the paper-
knife. The chair is in dark blue plush, and the back-
ground is of seal-skin. The background and the table are
very good. The head is a three-quarter face. Dina's
adorable light gold hair is loose; the shape of the head is
shown, and the half-braided hair falls down her back.
At half-past three M. and Mine. Gavini arrive.
" We found it impossible to let Marie's picture go without
seeing it. It is the departure of the first child."
What kind people they are. He, Gavini, accompanies
me to the Palais de l'lndustrie in a carriage, while two men
carry the picture. All this makes me feel hot, cold, and
frightened, as if I were at a funeral. And then the large
rooms, the sculpture gallery, the staircases, how it makes
my heart beat! While they are gone to fetch my receipt
and my number, the portrait of M. Gr6vy, by Bonnat, is
brought in, but it is placed against the wafl, where the
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400 MARIE BASHKIRT8EFF.
light prevents it from being seen. In the entire hall
there is only the Bonnat, my own, and a frightful yellow
background. The Bonnat seems very good, and I am quite
astonished to see my own picture there.
It is my first appearance — an independent act in public.
One feels alone on an eminence surrounded by water . . .
But it is done ; my number is 9,091.
" Mademoiselle Marie-Constantine Russ."
I hope it will be received. I send the number to Tony.
Friday, March 26th. — We went to confession for com-
munion to-morrow.
Our priest confesses like an angel — that is to say, as a
sensible man : a few words and it is over. But you know
my opinion on the subject. I should have been dead with
despair by this time if I did not believe in God ; but for all
that, the formulas and legends leave me unaffected.
Wednesday, March 31#t. — I am unsettled ; I ought to
have taken Tony's advice and rested. I go and worry Julian,
to whom I give the following note : —
" I, the undersigned, undertake to paint every week one
head and one cast or else a life-size study. Besides which I
will do three compositions a week or only one, but in that
case properly painted. If I do not keep to the above
conditions, I authorise M. Rodolphe Julian, artist, to
proclaim everywhere that I am absolutely unworthy of any
tind of interest
" Marie Russ."
I then go to see Tony, but he is occupied with a model,
and I stay only a few minutes.
" You are very gifted," Tony says to me, " and must really
do something."
" If you let yourself go I can answer for nothing more,"
savs Julian ; " you are already behindhand ; as for success, you
will succeed, but you ought to have succeeded as a
phenomenon. You must, you absolutely must, make a great
nit at the next Salon ; you must paint a picture, something
good, you really must ! "
Wednesday, April 7th. — We must not forget to say that
Julian has informed me that my picture has been received ;
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and, curiously enough, I feel no joy about it. Mamma's
delight bores me. This success is not worthy of me.
Saturday, April 10th. — I am not satisfied with what I
have exhibited. There are four admission numbers. Breslau
had No. 3, while I was admitted simply without a number.
If Breslau got only No. 3, it is just that I should have
nothing ; but never mind. I must rise out of this ; I have
been neither complimented nor scolded to my face. It is not
worthy of me ; I must rise out of this, I must, I must, I must !
I am humiliated that I exhibited what I have ; it is pretty,
but unworthy of me.
Saturday, April 17th. — In the afternoon I spent a long
hour with Tony; there I made the acquaintance of Robert
Fleury, senior, who was very agreeable, and who told
me that he had worked at drawing for four years before he
commenced painting. When the father had gone, we chatted
and I smoked a cigarette. As to the painting I brought, he
foimd it good, and told me to continue. Julian also said that
next to my Salon picture, it is the greatest effort I have
made.
Thursday, April 22nd. — Altogether, my picture will be
either placed to disadvantage, ana not seen, or else in the fiill
light ; and in this case it will cause me annoyance. People
will say that it is loud and pretentious, or else egregiously
weak, and what not
Monday, April 26tL — I have no place at the studio ; a
charming American is going to sit for me on condition that
I give her the picture.
Her little face captivates my fancy, and it will be
almost a picture. I am dreaming of an exquisite arrange-
ment, and the girl is kind enough to say she will sit for me,
and will be satisfied with a small picture which I will paint
afterwards.
If I had not a picture at the Salon the pupils would never
have confidence to sit for me.
Julian thinks that Tony worked at my picture, and you
remember what Tony had done. The tone was too dark and
he put in some lights, but I conscientiously repainted it all.
As to the hand, he changed the drawing as he went on
painting ; but the day before the last I shortened the fingers,
which caused me to repaint everything Therefore, there is
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402 MARIE BASHKIRT8EFF.
not even any drawing by him ; he only told me how to do it
In fact, I did it honestly, and after all it is nothing to
boast of.
To-night we were at Madame P 's, a retired magis-
trate's family, I think. They have taken the Hdtel
d' Alcantara, with a long and narrow gallery having a single
window facing the Champs-felys^es. The hotel is curiously
situated, thanks to this tongue of ground reaching to the
Champs-filys^es, it is convenient for fetes, though the gallery
is narrow. Nice kind people ; but a curious company,
and the most old-fashioned of costumes ; no one of note. I
feel sleepy and angry. And that dear mother of mine gets up
to introduce me to the Chilian or Mexican " who laughs. '
He seems to be always grinning, and makes a frigntful
grimace, owing to a tic, added to which he has a large full-
blown face. He possesses twenty-seven millions, and mamma
thinks that .... To marry that man ! it is almost like a
man without a nose. Oh ! the horror of it ! I should not
mind taking an old man or an ugly one, they are all the same
to me, but a monster, never ! Of what good would be the
millions with such a ridiculous lump ? There were several
acquaintances, oh how dull ! Some amateurs, who set
your teeth on edge with their music ; a violinist without
an ear, and a fine fellow who, after casting a conqueror's
glance round the room, rests one hand on the piano and
sings Schubert's serenade in an attitude .... Oh, so ridicu-
lous ! I cannot understand how a gentleman can play the
low comedian at a grand soiree. The women, with their Head-
dresses and that yellow powder which looks so dirty in the
hair, appeared to have mattresses on their heads, and looked
as though they had been rolling in the straw. How ugly!
how idiotic !
Tuesday, April 27th. — I ran away, as I am impatient to
have my first sitting with the American. She resembles
Mme. Recamier ; I push her hair up & la Psyche, and put
her into a cambric slip, with short and puffy sleeves, a pink
ribbon round the waist, under the breast, and a straw-coloured
scarf, which she winds roimd her arms.
She is exquisitely slim, even surprisingly so for eighteen ;
the slimneBS of fifteen ; her complexion is radiantly fresh, and
her hands very white.
Thursday, April 29th. — To-night we dine with the
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PARIS, 1880. 403
Simonid&s. Everything is quaint in their home (I met the
lady at Julian's) ; the husband is young and handsome, the
wife is beautiful and over thirty-five. They are very much
attached, live retired, receive only a few artists, and make
extraordinary drawings and paintings, a sort of imitation
of the Renaissance, subjects which astonish you by their
naivete — the death of Beatrice; the death of Laura; the
woman who put her lover's head into a pot of basil, from
which flowers sprang ; and all this in a style which looks as
though it had been done centuries ago. Madame dresses in
the fashion of Boccaccio's time. To-night she wore a white
Japanese crape dress, most delightfully soft, with long and
narrow sleeves, like those of the Virgin, and second sleeves
tied at the back ; the skirt straight and plain ; a sash of old
ribbon, giving her a short waist A bunch of lilies of the
valley was placed in her bodice, she wore pearls round her
neck, and earrings and bracelets of antique workmanship; with
her pale complexion, her black and wavy hair, and her gazelle
eyes, she looked like a fantastic apparition. If she only had
the sense to arrange her hair in a simple fashion, instead of
fluffing it out and making a fright of herself, she would be
very remarkable.
We had been for a quarter of an hour in the studio, after
leaving the dining-room, where a very good dinner had been
served, flowers, fruit, and very artistically arranged, and I
was accompanying Madame, who was singing some old Italian
classic songs, when mamma came to call for us to go to
church. ... It is Passion week, but we arrive too late. I
say my prayers in my own room.
To-morrow is varnishing day; I will take my little
American with me, so that she may sit nicely.
Friday, April SOth. — My little American, whose name is
Alice B , comes at ten o'clock, and we start together. I
want to go almost alone, to see first of all where my picture
has been placed. So I go to the Salon, feeling very nervous,
and imagining the most awfiil things, so that they may not
come true, and, indeed, we foresee nothing. My picture
is not yet hung; I find it at nearly twelve o'clock with a
thousand other unhung pictures, but it is in the outer
gallery, where I had been shocked already to see Breslau's
picture.
You know how Wolff treats this gallery, nevertheless it
contains works by Renoir, and other known artists. A is
exhibiting a large and handsome portrait of L£on Say. Not
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404 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
at all bad, very bold, but the hands look like the work of
Robert Fleury, senior. May God forgive nie this supposition
if it be not true. The fact is that L£on Say having posed for
the head only, it was easy to get help. The portrait has a
very good place. As for Breslau, placed like me in the
gallery, ana on the line like rue, she has done a very
indifferent piece of painting, or, at least, a thing as unpleasant
to look at as possible. It is the portrait of Algr. ^ lard. I
think she failed by attempting too great a delicacy of tone.
All is grey ; the background looks like a panel of gjeyish
wood ; trie chapel and oratory decorations, and the chair, are
all dirty in colour, the head also.
But there are such heads — it might have looked better
with a different arrangement; as it is, the drawing is good,
and there is a certain breadth of treatment in the hands.
The other pupils are not worth mentioning.
As for Bastien-Lepage, his picture strikes you at first as
empty, an effect of the open-air. Joan of Arc — the real
one, the peasant girl — leaning against an apple-tree, holding a
branch of it with her left hand, which is perfection, as is also
the arm; the right arm is hanging down beside the body;
it's an admirable thing. The head thrown back, the neck
stretched forward, and eyes fooking at nothing — clear and
wonderful eyes. The effect of the nead is bewildering ; it is
the peasant girl, the child of the fields, stupefied and suffering
under her vision.
The orchard which surrounds the house right at the back
is Nature itself, but there is .... a want of perspective;
it seems to come forward, and injures the figure. The
figure is sublime, and caused me such a strong emotion,
that I am keeping back tears as I write.
Tony's ceiling is very charming, very well done, and
pleases me.
These are the chief things. After breakfast, we were
going — at least, I thought so — to see the Salon all
together. But no, my aunt went to church, and mamma
wanted to go also, and it was only when she saw my look
of astonishment and indignation that, with a very bad
grace, she agrees to come. I don't know if it is my
modest place which infuriates them, but that is not a
reason, and it is really hard to have such a family. At
last, feeling ashamed of her indifference — or I don't know
what to call it — mamma goes, and we three — Dina, she,
and myself — meet first the whole atelier, and then some
acquaintances, and then Julian.
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PARIS, 1880. 405
Saturday, May 1st. — I have just endured one of those
formidable, stupid, and unnecessary crushes! To-morrow is
Easter. This evening, or to-night, we go to High Mass,
where all the Russian colony is assembled, beginning with
the ambassador and all his suite. All that have any
claim to fashion, beauty, and vanity are to the fore.
Great review of Russian women and their dresses — the
general topic of gossip.
Well, at the last moment they bring me my new dress,
which looks just like an ugly bundle of old dirty gauze.
I go, notwithstanding, but no one can tell the rage it put
me in! My waist was lost in a crooked and badly made
bodice, my arms deformed by sleeves too wide and
awkward — in short, a pretentious get-up. And, to crown it
all, this gauze, which I only saw in the daylight, looks
quite dirty in the evening. What efforts it cost me to
keep from tearing it all up, and running out of the
church ! To be dressed badly for want of better is bad
enough ; but to be able to be well dressed and to look
such a monster as I do to-night! And of course my hair
feels the effects of my humour — it gets untidy, and my
face burns. How ignoble!
This morning I went to the Salon to see Julian's young
man, and he has promised me to do the impossible. I
was in a black woollen dress — very simple — but my face
was fresh, and I was much looked at
And to-night ! Oh, confound it !
Thursday, May 6th. — Many compliments from Julian
for my painting.
Friday, May 7th. — Mme. Gavini came again to-day to
tell mamma that I fatigue myself too much. That is true,
but it is not the painting. I should not be tired if I
went to bed at ten or eleven o'clock, but I am awake
till one, and I get up at seven.
Yesterday it was the fault of that idiot of an S .
I wrote, and he has come to explain himself. Then he
went to talk nonsense with my aunt : then it was I who
waited for him to hear some stupid words, savouring of love.
He said " Good night " to me twenty times, and twenty times
I said to him "Go," and twenty times he begged to kiss
my hand, and I laughed, and at last, " Well, you may, I
don't care," said I. So he kissed my hand, and I have
the agony of confessing that I was pleased, not because
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406 MARIE BASHKTBT8EFF.
of the object: but there was a . . . heap of reasons,
and a woman is a woman for all that This morning I
still felt the kiss on my hand, for it was not the ordinary
kiss of politeness.
young rirls!
Do you tnink I am in love with this broad-nosed
youth ? No, you don't ?
Well, the A affair was nothing more. I tried hard
to fall in love, and with the help or the cardinals and of
the pope .... I became roused, out with love ? Ah no !
Well, as I am more than fifteen, and less silly, I invent
nothing, and the affair remains as it is.
The kiss on my hand displeased me, for the very
reason that it gave me pleasure ; one ought not to be
a woman to sucn a degree, and I determine to look coldly
at S ; but he is such a good fellow, so simple, that I
should be silly to act any comedy ; it is not worth while,
it is better to treat him like Alexis B , and that is
what I do. Dina, he, and I, stayed till eleven o'clock,
Dina listening, and S . and I reading verses and trans-
lating Latin.
1 am quite astonished to see that this young man is
very advanced, at least very much more so than I am :
I have forgotten much, but he perfectly remembers his
studies for the Bachelor of Arts degree and for his licence.
I should never have thought he was so educated. Only
fancy ! I should like to make a friend of him .... No, I
don't like him well enough for that, but simply a friendly
acquaintance.
Saturday, May 8th. — When people talk in a low voice
I do not near. This morning when Tony asked me
whether I had seen any of Pemgino's work, I said "No,"
without understanding.
And when I was told of it afterwards, I got out of it,
but very badly, by saying that indeed I had not seen any
of it, and that, on the whole, it was better to admit one's
ignorance.
Besides, Tony was very pleased with my head. Breslau
asked permission to stand as my model I generously con-
sented, and we present to the view of the studio the touch-
ing sight of our friendly feelings. They are really childish ;
but, for my part, I laugh at it all
Tony says it is a very good beginning, that I
hp,ve t but to continue. I appear to be competing
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PARIS, 1880. 407
with Breslau, and so far, at all events, I have beaten
her. (We shall take it up again next week after it's
dry.)
This amuses the whole school, and everybody wants to sit
for rae. I tease poor Breslau by telling her that my picture
has found a buyer at fifteen hundred francs, and tnat I am
hung in the circle gallery. It is sad, but true, my painting
is not first-rate; 1 confess to it quite willingly, as it is
only natural after two years' work, and my first exhibition,
witn but a fortnight to do it in ... . But the administra-
tion has been relatively just. None but the worst things
are hung in this renowned gallery, and there isn't a decent
canvas in the whole ....
Monday, May 10th. — It's strange that when I want to
fight against my inclinations, I have never yet succeeded.
I have never even tried to struggle; all is limited to a
resolution taken in advance, and a line of conduct never
followed; everything is done on the spur of the moment,
just as it pleases me, and as it happens. O diplomacy!
.... Or rather, quite frankly, it is that I find it unpleasant
not to follow my own bent, and I follow it
Thursday, May 13th. — I have such a singing in my ears
that I am obliged to make great efforts in order that it
may not be noticed.
Oh ! it is horrible. With S it is not so bad because
I am sitting near him ; and besides, whenever I like, I can
tell him that he bores me. The G s talk loud. At
the studio they laugh and tell me that I have become
deaf; I look pensive, and I laugh at myself: but it's
horrible.
Sunday, May 16th. — I went early to the Salon alone;
only those people who have cards were present I had a
good look at the Jeanne a" Arc, and especially at Morot's
Good Samaritan. I sat opposite Morot's picture with an
eye-glass, and studied it. Tnis picture pleases me better
than any I have ever seen. Nothing jars, all is simple,
true, and well done ; it is quite natural, and does not
remind one in the least of that frightful and conventional
academical beauty.
It is very magnificent ; even the donkey's head is good,
the landscape, the cloak, the very toe-nails. It is successful,
truthful, and well done,
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408 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
The Jeanne d'Arc has a sublime head.
These two pictures are in two adjoining rooms ; I went
from one to the other. I was studying Morot's and thinking
of that good fellow S , when ne himself passed just in
front witnout seeing me, and as I was going away I saw him
pointing from the garden to my picture, and talking about
it to another person, who had the look of a journalist
And then Saint-Marceaux's Harlequin! After the close
of last year's Salon, I thought that the medal of honour
had excited me when the work was no longer there to
re-assure me ; after six months I felt sure I haa exaggerated
Saint-Marceaux, but this Harlequin opens my eyes again
The first day I stood there transfixed, not guessing whose
it could be ; such an unsatisfactory subject, but what talent !
It is more than talent ! He is a thorough artist, and so is
not as much talked about as some other manufacturers
of sculpture! They are all manufacturers beside Saint-
Marceaux.
Tuesday, May 25th. — Mme. Goup .... came to sit for
her portrait; and afterwards I made a composition
It is a subject which fascinates me — Mary Magdalene
with the other Mary, at the tomb of Christ No con-
ventional sanctities, but to paint it as you imagine it
happened, and to feel what you do.
Thursday, May 27th. — How lovely is the early morning !
but listen ! I am about to begin ....
I first of all greeted the morning before my open win-
dow with the harmonious sounds of my harp, like the priests
of Apollo ; and then thought of my two women beside the
tomb.
I should like to go to Jerusalem, and to paint this
picture from native heads, and in the open air.
Tuesday, June 1st. — I think atheists must be very
miserable when they are timid. As for myself, when I
am frightened, I call upon God, and all my doubts melt
away through egoism. This is a bad feeling, but I am not
anxious to adorn myself with virtues which I do not pos-
sess. I feel that it is quite ridiculous enough to display
all one's little weaknesses and meannesses. In 1873 I went
to the International Exhibition at Vienna, when the cholera
was raging at its highest, under the shield of the following
verses from Psalm xci* I give them word for word ;—
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PARIS, 1880. 409
" He shall cover thee with his wings ; under their protection shalt
thon be safe: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler.
"Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the
arrow that flieth by day :
" Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness ; nor for the destruc-
tion that wasteth at noonday.
"A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right
hand; but it shall not come nigh thee."
Yesterday I thought of those divine words. I read them
over with enthusiasm ; the same enthusiasm as I used to
feel in childhood ; I did not foresee that they would serve
me to-day.
I have just made my will ; it is enclosed in an envelope
addressed as follows : — " To M. Paul Bashkirtseff, Poltava ; "
in ray own hand, in Russian.
" 1 will come and drag you bv the legs after 1 am dead
if they do not carry out my wisnes ! "
S-- — remained ; at first we were simply chatting. My
aunt did not leave my side, and she bored me, so I seated
myself at the piano; he then told me something which
made me turn cold: his sisters have arranged a marriage
for him, but he does not love the woman they want to
give him.
" Then do not marry her ; believe me, it is madness."
Afterwards we played at cards, aux bfaes, which is a
favourite game amongst Russian servants.
"Is it Mme. de J3 you are going to marry ?" I
wrote on a book which I passed to him.
" No, the lady is older," he replied by the same means.
We then filled six pages witn these phrases, which it
would be amusing to keep.
In fact, he loves me, he adores me, and the phrases
revolve round the burning subject.
I forbid him to joke, and he replies that it is I who
am making fun of him. My aunt remarks every now and
again that I am silly, and that I ought to go to bed, and
I tell her that I am ill, and that I am going to die. After
this singular correspondence I am almost certain that he
loves me; to-night there were on his side many very
meaning looks, and pressings of my hand under pretence
of feeling if I am feverish. However, this comes to
nothing ; but I should like nevertheless to keep this young
man by my side, not yet knowing what I shall make of
him. I shall tell him to ask mamma — that will give me
time. Mamma will refuse, and that would be another
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410 MARIE BASHKIBTSEFF.
delay . . . and then I don't know. It is something even
not to know.
Monday, June lUh. — I am reading over the past, of
which I am passionately fond. I remember when C — — used
to come in, it seemed quite to dazzle me; I can neither
describe his manner, nor my impressions. . . All my
being seemed to go out to him as I offered him my hand.
Then I felt myself uplifted, and freed from all fleshly
bonds.
I felt wings sprouting, and then a mortal terror the
hours should pass so quickly ! And I did not understand
it. . . What a pity that the nature of my writing does
not permit me to isolate interesting facts — things are all
mixed. And then, to tell the truth, I rather affected
to interest myself in everything to show that my whole
existence was not wrapped up m C But when I try
to live these times over again I am shocked to find them
surrounded by everything else. But isn't that like life
itself? Still there are tnings, events, and men that one
would like to isolate and shut up in a precious cask with
a key of gold.
" When you feel yourself superior to him he will no
longer influence you," Julian said
Was it not the thought of painting his portrait that
drove me to work.
Wednesday, June 16th. — We visit the Salon at eight
o'clock, where I meet Saint-Marceaux. We exchange civilities,
and I say to him stupidly: "You never come to see us."
" I am so busy ! " Only fancy making such a reproach, it
is stupid. Now I shall be thinking that Saint-Marceaux
will not care about meeting me. No, look you, I must
succeed with something. I must be thought somebody by
men like Saint-Marceaux. And now I have only a few
months left before commencing my Salon picture. And I
had the chance of going to St Petersburg to get married !
No, I will remain here, to work ; I will not go before the
winter of 1881-82. Confound it! There'll still be time.
Yes, I remain, and I work ; Oh ! yes, yes, you shall see.
I am better again, nearly well, and to-morrow I return
to the studio again for good.
Friday, June 18th. — I have been working all day. My
model is so graceful and so pretty that I have been post-
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PARIS, 1880. 411
poning the painting from day to day. The preparation
was good, and I was afraid of spoiling it A real emotion
to begin with, but it seems to be getting on very
well
In the evening, S . His melancholy look I attribute
to love. However, there is something else ; he is leaving
for Bucharest or for Lille, in the capacity of manager of
his brother-in-law's bank. But also, and above all, the
marriage ! Ah ! he holds to it. I only smile and call him
a presumptuous and daring fellow, andf explain to him that
I am without dowry, as my dowry will be spent on trifling
feminine things; that he will have to lodge me, feed me,
and take me out
Poor fellow, I felt a little sorry for him all the same.
I think he is not best pleased at going away. . . . Mont
Dore, Biarritz, all fade away. . . .
He has kissed my hands a hundred times, begging me to
think of him.
" You will sometimes think of me ? Oh, say, I implore
you, that you will think of me ! "
" When I have time."
But he begged so much that I was obliged to say a very
faint " yes."
Ah ! farewells are always tragic ; at least, on his side. We
were both near the drawing-room door, and to give him a
noble remembrance of me, I gravely held out my hand for him
to kiss, and then we gravely shook hands. I remained in
a dreamy state for a good while. I shall miss this child,
but he will write to me.
You know that for the last few days Paris has gone crazy
about little pigs. They are called porte-veine, and are made
in gold, in enamel, in precious stones, and in everything else.
I have been wearing a copper one for two days. They say at
the studio that, thanks to the pig, I have done a good piece of
painting. Well, poor Casimir nas taken away a little pig in
remembrance of me.
I have a good mind to give him the Gospel of Saint
Matthew, with this dedication : — " The most beautiful book in
the world, and one which responds to every feeling of the soul.
There is no need to be sentimental or bigoted in order to find
calm and consolation in it Keep it as you would a talisman,
and read a page of it every evening in remembrance of me,
who have perhaps given you pain, and you will understand
why it is the best book in the world."
But does he deserve it ? And is it not better to confine
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412 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
myself to the little pig. In the first place, he will not under-
stand Saint Matthew.
Sunday, June 20th. — I spent the morning at the Salon,
which closes to-night The Good Samaritan has gained
the medal of honour. But however extraordinary M. Morot's
painting may be, the medal of honour ought not to be so
easily won. And it is not given to merit, but to the best
picture in Ute Salon,
Bastien-Lepage's landscape is not perfect, it spoils the
figure. But what an admirable figure ! This head is quite an
extraordinary piece of work Morot's picture almost bored
me to-day, while that of Bastien- Lepage ! I went from one to
the other, and then to a sleeping head by Henner, and a little
nvmph by the same artist Henner is beauty itself. It is not
altogether nature, but .... but it ought to be nature, it's
adorable. His nymphs in the twilight are incomparable and
inimitable. He never varies, but is always charming. His
nude figures at the Luxembourg do not come up to what he
does now. His last year's picture I consider his best I
wished intensely to buy it, I should look at it every day.
Oh, if I were rich ! . . . .
S shall not have his Saint Matthew.
It is singular what an effect Morot's picture has had on me.
It is dull after Bastien-Lepage and Henner. Henner's is
inexpressibly charming.
Sunday ', June 27th. — I did some modelling this morning.
I feel as depressed as possible, but I must appear to be
gay, and this suppressed misery makes me stupid. I have
not a word to say. I force myself to laugh, listening to
commonplace talk, and feel inclined to cry. Misery of
miseries !
Outside of my art, which I commenced from caprice and
ambition, which I continued out of vanity, and which I now
worship ; outside of this passion — for it is a passion — there is
nothing, or only the most atrocious existence. Ah! misery
of miseries. And still there are some happy people in the
world. Happy ! that is too much to ask ; a bearable
existence would satisfy me ; with what I possess it would
be happiness.
Wednesday, June 30th. — Instead of painting, I take
Miss Graham with me and we go to the Rue ae Sevres,
and remain for about an hour opposite the houses of the
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PARIS, 1880. 413
Jesuits. But it was nine o'clock, and we only saw the end of
the agitation.
I consider this expulsion absurd, and can only account
for it as a mean revenge of M. Jules Ferry for his article
No. 7. The influence of the Jesuits has just been con-
siderably strengthened ; if people hate their doctrines, they
ought not to go to work in this way . . . and it is so difficult
to know how to act, that it is better to let it alone.
There is only a fanciful way that would be applicable
— to give all sorts of guarantees, to make all possible advances
to every living Jesuit, to give them an estate, to build them
houses, to create a city for them, and when they are all in it,
to blow it up. I do not dislike the Jesuits so much as
I fear them, in my ignorance of what they really are. Does
any person know for certain what they are ?
No ! But it would be difficult to do anything more stupid
and less useful than this dispersion. Why does Gambetta
allow it ? I thought for a moment that he permitted it in
order to intervene triumphantly.
Wednesday, Jxdy \Uh. — Anniversary of the taking of the
Bastile. Review, distribution of flags, illuminations, and balls
in every public square. Paris has a look of charming newness.
At six o'clock we take the circular train at the Porte Maillot.
I put on a pink dress which cost me twenty-five francs at
the Magasin du Printemps.
Observe that we are on our way to see the illuminations,
and riots at Belleville. We talk and laugh so much that
we miss our station, and have to change trains three times.
The worst of all was that the places looked quite deserted.
At last we alight in the open desert ; it is eight o'clock, and
we begin to feel hungry. Gaillard suggests dining at the
Lac Saint-Fargeau ; delicious shade, a lake, good cookery,
&c. &c. Agreed. We then go on a voyage of discovery,
and enter a park, the Buttes Cnaumont. We are desperately
hungry ; but console ourselves by finding the scenery superb,
especially a certain pavilion that looks like a temple. Julian
stops nearly every one who passes, and asks for information
respecting the restaurant ; all give different directions. At
last, after having walked and admired the paving-stones as a
consolation, we catch sight of a lake and an illuminated
restaurant This is splendid ! We rush there, but, after ten
minutes' walk, we find our passage barred. We must retrace
our steps and go round by another way. It was vexing;
the future Mine. Gaillard was dying with hunger. And
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4X4 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
each time that we jokingly foretold some misadventure, it
was sure to happen. The lake was not Saint-Fareeau,
and the restaurant was a simple caf&, where we found notning
to eat
" Go down to La Villette," said one.
"If you would like to eat something standing," said a
groggy citizen, " you had better go in there," and ne pointed
to a wine shop.
Oh ! joy ! A cab comes our way — but refuses to take us,
and it is only after urgent entreaties and supplications that he
consents. We all five cram in and start for the Lac Saint-
Fargeau. I will not describe to you this whole hour's drive
through a number of little streets, almost deserted.' We
arrive ; the Lac Saint-Fareeau is not a lake at all, but a
hideous pool It is half-past nine ; and we are scarcely
seated wnen it begins to rain. We have to move to an
immense assembly room. I jump on to a chair.
" Gentlemen, I am an opportunist before everything ; now,
as at this moment it is opportune to eat, I propose that we
take our seats once more."
At about .ten o'clock we begin to think of the fireworks
which we meant to have witnessed from the top of the Buttes
Chaumont. We meet our angelic coachman again at the
door of the restaurant ; he is tipsy, but shows proof of an
ambassador's talents in difficult passages. And, indeed, cries
of —
" Down with the carriages ! " are to be heard : but we
reply by " Vive la R6publique ! "
Friday, July 16/A. — Julian considers my painting very,
very good, and A is obliged to admit that it is not
baa, for Julian is more severe than Tony.
I am crazy about Julian's praises.
We go away to-morrow, and I am enduring the
boredom of being on the eve of a journey — parcels, &c,
&c. It is fortunate that I am going away, for otherwise
the studio would not continue to get on so well I am
at present its undisputed chief. I give advice, I entertain,
my work excites great enthusiasm: I have a kind of
coquetry in being kind, gracious, and obliging, and making
myself loved — loving my companions, consoling them with
fruits or ices.
The other day I went out, and they at once com-
menced praising me. Mile. Marie D was quite over-
powered when relating it, and Madeleine, who draws, as
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MONT DORE, 1880. 415
you know, wishes to begin painting, and places herself
under my wing for advice, ft is true I teach to perfec-
tion, and if I painted as well as I teach I should be very
well satisfied.
" In fact, that is what always conies of being an astound-
ing professor."
Julian regrets that I cannot go on with that head,
which would do for the Exhibition. "It shows character
and looks natural — it is bold and life-like."
My little model has an uncommon head — very large
eyes, enormous eyelids, an enormous superciliary arch, with a-
slight expression of astonishment, a turned-up nose, a pretty
mouth, a charming complexion. She is young, but there
is about her a sort of blemished look, not, however, dis-
pleasing ; golden hair, which I believe to be dyed, but, never-
theless, beautifully arranged like a lion's mane, on a dark
green background.
Saturday, July 17 th. — I wanted to go to the country —
real country, where there would be no one ; but even that
is not enough. Real happiness would consist in retiring
now and then to uninhabited countries — to islands amongst
great foreign trees, with Paul and Virginia. To see tne
sunrise, ana enjoy the night all alone in the most absolute
calm ! A savage country, tall trees, a pure sky, mountains
gilded by the sun ... an atmosphere which one cannot
imagine, and which in itself is a felicity, instead of the
horrors we breathe here. . . But for such an existence one
must have money. And I should not even care to have
a man I loved to share my solitude.
Mont Bore. — Tuesday, July 20th. — I went to Julian's with
Villevielle to fetch my keys, which I forgot yesterday. He
encourages me very much — I leave with a good impression.
It is a relief that I have no longer the fear of IJreslau.
In speaking of me Julian says: "In her case it is not
simply painting, it is the life itself ; and when she is un-
successful you can still see that her effort is in that
direction."
Afterwards we go again to look at the Prix de Rome.
At four o'clock Villevielle comes back to say "Good-bye"
again, and we start. On Monday, at six o'clock in the
morning, we arrive at Clermont, and at three o'clock at
Mont Dore. It takes six hours to drive from Clermont to that
frightful Mont Dore, but I like that better than thq train,
CC
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416 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
We get bad lodgings, as every place is full. The cook-
ery is atrocious. I am only to-day getting resigned to it,
chiefly because I have discovered some interesting things
to paint
Wednesday, July 2\st. — I have commenced my treat-
ment. You are fetched in a closed Sedan chair. A
costume of white flannel — drawers and stockings in one —
and a hood and cloak ! Then follow a bath, a douche,
drinking the waters, and inhaling in succession. I accept
everything. This is the last time that I mean to take
care of myself, and I shouldn't do it now but for the
fear of becoming deaf. My deafness is much better — nearly
gone.
Thursday, July 22nd. — I admit the elevation of a man
to supreme power when that man is a hero like Napoleon I.
I also admit that a sort of dictatorship may be conferred
on a superior and capable being ; but nis children are of
no account I do not approve even of power for life.
That looks as though one were afraid of failing in one's
engagements on botn sides. If the man who is elected
conducts himself properly, he needs no oaths of fidelity to
maintain him in power.
I am wearing a hat like those of the peasant women here
it suits me very well, and makes me look like a Greuze. I
telegraphed for some lawn dresses to wear here in the heat, and
now it is cold. I am beginning to look at the scenery. Until
this evening, I have been depressed by the filthiness of the
food, and because eating becomes here an ignoble preoccupa-
tion, from which one can get no exemptioa
Friday, July 23rd. — Who will give me back my wasted,
spoiled, and lost youth ? I am not yet twenty, and the othet
day I found three grey hairs. I boast of it, it is a fearful
!>roof that I exaggerate nothing. Were it not for my childish
ace I should look old. Is it natural at my age ?
Oh ! but there arises at the bottom of my heart such a
storm, that it is better to cut all this short by telling myself
that I shall always have the resource of blowing my brains
out before they begin to pity me.
I had an extraordinary voice ; it was a gift of God, and I
lost it Singing is to a woman what eloquence is to a man, a
power without limits.
From my window which looks on to the park I saw
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MONT DORE, 1880. 417
Mme. de Rothschild in the Promenade ; she has arrived here
with grooms, horses, &c. &c. The sight of this fortunate
being vexed me, but I must be brave. Besides, when a
pain becomes intense, it means deliverance. When it reaches
a certain point we know that it can only diminish. It is
while waiting for this crisis of the heart and soul that we
suffer, but when once that crisis has come, we feel relieved.
And then we call Epictetus to our aid, or we pray ; but prayer
softens. . . .
Now I am better for a few days, during which bitterness
will keep rising, rising, rising; then will come a fresh out-
burst, then I shall collapse, and so on !
Tuesday, July 27th. — I try to paint landscape, but it ends
by ray kicking a hole through the canvas, and then there was
a little girl of four beside me, watching me do it ; so instead of
looking at my landscape, I was looking at the child, who is to
be my model from to-morrow. How can one prefer anything
else to the human face ?
I have such a pain between my neck and ray left eai 4 ,
right inside, that it is enough to drive me mad. I do not say
anything about it, for my aunt would worry me, and I know
it has something to do with my sore throat.
For more than twenty-four hours I have been suffering
terribly; I cannot sleep, or do anything else. Even my
reading is interrupted every second. I think it is this pain
which makes me see the dark side of life. Misery of miseries !
Thursday, July 29th. — I find no end of models ; all
these people of Auvergne are wonderfully good-natured, and
the women are most flattering.
I commence a picture of a little girl of ten lying asleep in
the grass. But to-morrow 1 leave her to paint a little fellow
with his goat (life size), which I will finish, and then I will go
on with my little girl The little boy with the goat is the son
of a wood-carver and carpenter, who has drawn m the studios
at Paris. His wife is a dressmaker, and the three children are
beautiful Besides this, their shop faces the north, and on
rainy days I will make a very dark study of the shop, in
which I will place the little girl, who is not more than seven,
and charming.
Saturday, July Slst — Yesterday I commenced my pic-
ture on a 25 canvas. The arrangement is very simple.
The two children are sitting una beautiful trees, the
c G 2
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418 . MAB1E BASHKIRT8EFF.
trunks of which are covered with moss ; there is an open
space at the top of thepicture through which the country
is seen in pale green. Tne boy, who is about ten, is sitting
full face, with a school-book under his left arm, and his
eyes looking at nothing. The little girl, who is six, is
pulling him by the shoulder with one hand, and in the
other she is holding a pear. Her face is in profile, and
she seems to be calling nim. The two children are seen
only down to the knees, for the scale is life-size.
Before leaving Paris I read Indiana, by Georges Sand
and I assure you that it is not entertaining ! But as I
have only read La Petite Fadette, two or three other novels,
and Indiana, perhaps I ought not to give an opinion.
.... So far I am not at all captivated by her talent ;
but still, for all the world to have admired so loudly.
.... However, I do not like it It is the same witn
Raphael's Virgins; what I see at the Louvre does not
please me. I saw Italy before I was able to judge, and
what I saw then equally displeased me. It is neither divine
nor earthly, to me it seems conventional and cardboardy.
I wanted to ride on horseback . . . .but I care for
nothing, and, when I spend a day without working, I feel
a dreaaiul remorse : ana some days I can do nothing, and
then I tell myself that I could if I would, so I quarrel
with myself, and it ends up with a Let it all go / Life is not
worth living ! during whicn I smoke and read novels.
Tuesday, August Vlth. — My open-air picture is aban-
doned, because of the bad weatner. I have painted another
from it on canvas, No. 15. The scene is in the carpenter's
house on the left side, the woman is trying a choir dress
on a boy of ten ; the little girl is seated on an old box,
looking at her brother with open mouth ; the grandmother
is near the stove in the background, her hands joined,
and smiling as she looks at the child. The father, sitting
near the bench, is reading La Lanterne and looking
askance at the red cassock and white surplice. The back-
ground is very complicated; a stove, some old bottles,
tools, and a heap ot things rather unfinished, naturally.
I have not time to finish it, but I painted this picture to
familiarise mvself with these things. Standing figures,
floors, and otner details frightened me, and I should have
felt desperate at risking a picture of an interior; now I
know how to do it, not that I can do it well, but I am
no longer afraid of it, that is alL
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MONT BORE, 1880. 419
The heads in my first sketch are about three fingers in height
There were the dresses and all to be done, and I nad
never before done anything but the nude, excepting in my
contemptible Salon picture. And there were hands! six
hands and a half.
I have never had the perseverance to complete any
writing satisfactorily. The event happens, I get the idea,
I write out a rough copy, and the next day I see in the
papers an article which is like mine, and therefore makes
mme of no use, which, to begin with, I had never com-
pleted, nor written out properly. Perseverance in art shows
me that a certain effort is necessary in order to vanquish
the first difficulty. The first step is all the difficulty.
This proverb has never struct me so forcibly.
Then, furthermore, and above all these, is the considera-
tion of one's surroundings. In spite of the best will in
the world, mine must be called brutalising. The members
of my family are, for the most part, ignorant and common-
place. Then there is Mme. G , a thoroughly worldly
woman. Then there are the people who call on us ; we
rarely talk, and you know our habitvAs, La M , &c, some
insipid young men. I assure you, too, that if I did not
shut myself up so often by myself with my books, I should
really be less intelligent than I am as it is. I seem to
speak my mind freely, and occasionally no one has more
difficulty in showing oft*. I often become quite imbecile, the
words crowd my mouth and I cannot speak. I listen and
smile vaguely, that is alL
Wednesday t August 18th. — We have been riding too long ;
five hours on horseback, with this weakening treatment, have
completely knocked me up.
I am afraid the treatment will justify that brute of a
doctor at the baths, who asserted that I was weak It is
true that when I had finished, he assured me that to have
stood twenty-one baths so well I must be very strong.
Medicine is a wretched science.
We climbed to the top of the Sancy ; the mountains
which encircle that horrible Mont Dore look flat from this
eminence. The view from the top of the Sancy is really grand ;
I should like to see the sun rise from that height. The
distances have a bluish tinge, which reminded me of the
Mediterranean, and this is all that is beautiful in it The
ascent on foot is very difficult ; but when you have reached
the top you seem to overlook the whole world.
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420 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
There was a crowd of people, come like ourselves, and
they spoiled nature.
Thursday, August 19th. — I am good for nothing this
morning ; my eyes and head are tired. And to think I am
not going before Saturday !
To-day I have no time; to-morrow will be Friday, and
if I started on a Friday I should be thinking that all the
annoyances which happen to me were due to that fact
Paris, Sunday, August 22nd. — Eight o'clock. How
pretty and comfortable my studv looks !
I have read the weekly illustrated papers and other
pamphlets .... I am quite settled now, and I feel as though
I haa not been away at alL
Two o'clock in the afternoon. I comfort myself (?) with
the thought that my worries are only equivalent to those of
all kinds which artists have to endure ; for I have not to con-
tend with poverty and the tyranny of parents .... For that is
what artists complain of, is it not ? Talent alone will not
make me succeed, unless it be .... a stroke of genius ; but
such strokes have never been effected even by a great
genius after three years' study, especially now when there
is so much talent about. I have very good intentions, and
then suddenly I do foolish things just as in a dream ....
I despise and hate myself, as I despise and hate every one
else, including my own people Oh ! my family ....
For example, in the railway carriage my aunt tried all
manner of little dodges to make me sit on the side with the
window closed. Tired of struggling, I gave in, but on
condition that the other should remain open ; but as soon as
I fell asleep she shut that one too. I woke up declaring that
I would kick my heels through the panes, but we were at our
destination. And here, at breakfast, I saw looks of agony,
and eyebrows contracted in dramatic fashion because I did
not eat. Evidently these people love me ... . but yet it
seems to me that wnen people love they ought to understand
you better ! . . . .
Sincere indignation produces eloquence. A man who is
indignant, or who believes himself to be indignant against a
Government, mounts the platform and makes himself a
reputation. But a woman nas no platform at her disposal ;
besides which she is beset by fathers, fathers-in-law, mothers,
mothers-in-law, everybody, &c. &c, who fidget her all day
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PARIS, 1880. • 421
long. She grows indignant, but can only be eloquent before
her dressing-table ; result, zero.
And then mamma is always talking of God : if God is
willing ; by God's help. They call upon God so often only to
escape all sorts of little duties. It is neither faith nor even
devotion, it is a mania, a weakness ; the cowardice of lazy,
incapable, and indolent people 1 What can be more indelicate
than to cover all one's failings with the word of God ? It is
indelicate ; it is more, it is criminal, if one believes in God.
If it is decreed that a thing is to happen, it will happen, she
says, to avoid the trouble of action .... and the fear of
remorse. If everything had been decreed beforehand, God
would be only a constitutional president, and our wills, vices,
and virtues but sinecures.
TJtursday, September 2nd. — " Besides that, he read a great
deal, acquiring that profound and serious instruction which
one owes to oneself alone, and which every person of talent
has sought for between the ages of twenty and thirty."
This remark from Balzac flatters me.
But see now ! I have hired a garden at Passy, Rue du
Ranelagh, No. 45, for making studies in the open air,
and I begin with Irma, a nude figure, life size, under a
tree.
It is still pretty warm, and I must make haste. Such is
life ! After all, it is just as well. I do not know how it is
that I feel, as it were, apprehensions of I know not what.
I feel as if some annoyances were about to happen to
me Shut up alone, and at work, I should think myself
safe. . . . But people are so stupid and spiteful, that
they come and seek you out in your corner to worry
you.
But what can happen ? I don't know ; maybe something
will be invented or misrepresented ; it will be repeated to me
and pain me. . . .
Or else some nasty thing will occur .... not important,
but petty and humiliating; like my luck, in fact. All this
keeps me from Biarritz.
" Why do you not go ? " said Mme. G . " You must go ;
I will tell your mother or your aunt about you. ... In fact,
you shall go to Biarritz ; it is very elegant ; you will meet
plenty of people there."
Bosh! as they say in the fashionable world. If they
would only let me alone, I should like to remain in my garden
at Passy.
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422 MARIE BA3HKIRT8EFF.
Tuesday, September 7th. — It is raining. . . . All the most
disagreeable incidents of my life crowd through my brain, and
there are some things already long past, whicn make me start
and contract my hands just as though I felt a sudden twinge
of physical pain.
It would be necessary for my recovery that everything
about me should be changed. ... I dislike my own family.
I know beforehand what my mother or my aunt will say,
or what they will do in every circumstance ; how they look
at the Salon, on the promenade, at the seaside, and it all
sets my teeth on edge it is like hearing glass being
scraped.
All around me would have to be changed, and when I
felt calmer I should, no doubt, love them all as they ought
to be loved. But they let me die of ennui, and when I
refuse a certain dish they look scared. ... Or else they
practise tricks without number to excuse there being no
ice at table, in case it might hurt me. Or else they come
like thieves to shut windows that I have opened. A
thousand small exasperating nothings ; but home is alto-
gether oppressive.
My anxiety is that I am getting rusty in this solitude.
All tnese black moods darken the intellect, and make me
retire into myself I fear that these dark clouds may
leave a veil over my character for ever, and make me
bitter, soured, and gloomy. I have no wish to be so,
but am afraid of it, by dint of eating my heart out in
silence.
It is said that my manners are perfect ; the old Bonapartists
said so to Adeline. . . . No, look you, it seems to me that
there will always be a sort of uneasiness weighing upon me. I
am always in fear of being slandered, humiliated, and put on
the black list .... and some of it must stick, whatever
people may say. . . . No, look you, my family can have
no idea what tney have made of me. My sadness frightens
me only because I am afraid of losing for ever the brilliant
qualities indispensable to a woman . . .
Why do I live ? Of what use am I here ? What have I
obtained ? Neither glory nor happiness, nor even peace ! . . .
Friday, September 10th. — Great perturbation for my
aunt. Doctor Fauvel, who sounded me a week ago and
found nothing the matter, has sounded me to-day and found
that my bronchial tubes are attacked ; his look became . . .
grave, affected, and a little confused at not having foreseen
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PARIS, 1880. 423
the seriousness of the evil ; then followed some of the pre-
scriptions for consumptive persons, cod-liver oil, painting
with iodine, hot milk, flannel, &c. &c, and at last he advises
going to see Dr. S6e or Dr. Potain, or else to bring them
to his house for a consultation. You may imagine what
my aunt's face was like ! I am simply amused ! I have
suspected something for a long time ; I have been cough-
ing all the winter, and I cough and choke still.
Besides, the wonder would oe if I had nothing the matter ;
I should be satisfied to have something serious and be done
with it
My aunt is dismayed, and I am triumphant Death
does not frighten me; I should not dare to kill myself
but I shoula like to be done with it . . . If you only
knew ! . . . . I will not wear flannel nor stain myself with
iodine; I am not anxious to get better. I shall have,
without that, quite enough health and lite for all I shall
be able to do in it.
Friday, September 17th. — Yesterday I went again to the
doctor to whom I went about my ears, and he admitted
that he did not expect to see matters so serious, and
that I should never hear so well as formerly. I felt as if
struck dead. It is horrible! I am not deaf certainly, but
I hear as one sees through a thin veiL For instance, I
cannot hear the tick of my alarm-clock, and I may perhaps
never hear it again without going close up to it It is
indeed a misfortune. Sometimes in conversation many
things escape my hearing. . . . Well, let us thank heaven
for not being blmd or dumb as yet
I am quite bent as I write, and if I try to sit up,
it hurts me terribly ; it is in this case tne effect of
tears. At the death of the Prince Imperial I felt just
the same. I have been crying very much since this
morning.
Tuesday, September 28th. — A good day commenced in
the night I dreamt of him. He was ugly and ill, but
that does not matter. I understand now that it is not
for beauty one loves. We were talking like two friends,
as of yore; and as we should talk again if we were to
meet I only wished one thing, that our friendship might
remain within limits that would permit it to last
It was also my dream when waking. In short, I have
never felt so happy as I did this night
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424 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Saint-Amand comes to luncheoa An avalanche of
compliments: I am this and that; and this winter they
mean to form a circle of the 61ite around me; he means
to bring the celebrities, all the somebodies, &c. &c. ; I did
not even wish for this, and I woke up laughing.
Dumas tils says that young girls do not love, but
simply have a preference, for they do not know what love
is. Inen where the devil does M. Dumas place love ?
And then one pretty nearly always knows enough to
have some notion .... And what M. Dumas calls love is
merely the consequence and natural complement of love,
and not at all a thing by itself separate and complete —
at least, for people who are somewhat decent
"Often the inevitable consequence, and without which
no love is possible,' 1 says the same Dumas, and he also
calls it " the last expression of love." That I admit ; but
to say that a young girl cannot love is nonsense.
/ know nothing about it, myself, but yet I feel that
there is something repulsive in it, with a being one dislikes,
and that it contains "the last expression of love" is when
one loves.
There are also wild fancies which sometimes cross the
mind, you know what I mean. .... when the man is
not repulsive ; but they have nothing to do with love.
What would horrify me most would be to kiss on the lips
one to whom I felt indifferent ; I think I could never do it
But when one loves, oh! . . . that is so different For
instance, last night I loved in my dream ; sometimes it has
happened to me when awake. Well, it is so pure, so
tender, and so beautiful. Love is so grand and pure a
sentiment that everything in it is chaste.
M. Dumas' love is not objective, but is only a conse-
quence of what is felt, and a means of loving more and
better what one loves already.
Wednesday, September 29th. — Since yesterday I have
looked so fair and fresh and pretty that I am surprised,
with animated and brilliant eyes ; even the outline of my
face looks more delicate and beautiful. Only it is a pity
it should happen just when there is no one to see me. It
is absurd to say, but I looked at myself in the glass
with pleasure for half-an-hour ; it is a long time since
this has happened to me ....
Friday, October 1st — The Russian people who have come
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PARIS, 1880. 425
to see us tell me the news of Russia. Their eldest daughter
is under the strict supervision of the police for having
said, on an examination day when the Grand Duke was
expected, that she would much rather pass her examination
than receive the visit of the Grand Duke. On another occa-
sion, being very short-sighted, she wore a pince-nez, thanks
to which she nas been denounced to the police ! spectacles
or eye-glasses being considered signs of advanced ideas
amongst women. They transport, poison, or exile for a
word. They pay domiciliary visits at night, and if you
are not very dangerous they send you to Vjatka or Perm;
if you are, to Siberia or the gallows. It is said
that there is not a family without one member in exile,
hanged, or at least under supervision. The spy system is
so thoroughly organised that it is impossible to talk in
one's own home, in one's family circle, without everything
being reported to someone in authority. Poor country!
and the other day I was accusing myself of cowardice
because I would not go there ! but is it possible ? The
Socialists are atrocious villains, who murder and rob
you ; the government is arbitrary and stupid. These
two fearful elements are at war witn each other, and the
wise people are crushed between the two. The girl in-
formed me, after two hours' talking, that for the tenth
part of what I said I should be sent to penal servitude
or hanged, and that if I go to Russia I am done for.
I will go to Russia when there is some respect for
people's rights in that beautiful country, when it has
oecome possible to be useful there, and when one will
not risk exile by remarking that " the censorship is very
severe."
All this makes one's heart jump. Would it not be
possible to form an honest Liberal party, for I hate the
crimes of Socialism as much as those of the Government?
Ah ! if it were not for my painting, how I. . .
Oh ! Frenchmen, who say that you are neither happy
nor free! . . . There is that going on in Russia which
happened in France in the Reign of Terror ; for a move-
ment or a word you are lost. Oh ! what a great deal
there is to be done before men will be comparatively happy !
" We are now trying to liberate woman," says the younger
Dumas ; " when that is done, we must try to liberate
God ; and then when there will be perfect understanding
between the three — God, man, and woman — we shall see
clearer and advance faster."
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426 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
The woman question is one of the most odious, and when
one thinks that everything has made progress excepting this
one feels stupefied. Read Dumas' pamphlet, Les Femmes
qui Votent et les Femmes qui TuenL Dumas' overpowering
talents no longer shock me in these pages, though men are
still rather too high and mighty towards women. But, on the
whole, there is some good in it
Saturday, October 2nd. — A lady whose portrait I am
Eainting pays me for it by sitting for the study of a
and. Tony has been adorable ; he was just going to correct
the Jewess, when he caught sight of my hands. " Who did
this ? "
" I, Monsieur."
" It is very true, very true, very true ; " and after having
again looked at my study, he repeated, " It is very true, very
true ; " and again, after another pose, " It is very true." He
looked agreeably surprised, and imagine my joy !
And he sat himself down in my seat, and gave me a
lesson. "It is a good study, you must do some more like
that There is cftarming tone in it ; " I underline because
of iny fellow-students, who, not knowing what to object
to, said I was no colourist
" Unfortunately, the drawing is not quite right, but that
will not happen again in the next study, I am sure; it
must be too long — that is a fault one does not repeat On
the whole, it is good, there is good work in it" Really !
I turned red and pale over it But you should see tne
importance they attach to me at the studio. I am the most
advanced, and I am made so much of that I speak almost
with unction, like Cassagnac. But do not fear that this
triumph will turn my head.
I am happy about my painting, and I am feeling better
generally.
The hands are painted on a 6 canvas ; the left one resting
flat on the table, the right hand holding a pen, as if she had
just stopped to read over what was written. I express myself
badly, but you understand.
Sunday, October 3rd. — I am miserable. No, I am afraid
there is nothing to be done. For four years I have been
doctoring a laryngitis under the most celebrated physicians,
and it goes from bad to worse.
For four days my ears were better, I could hear well ; now
it is beginning again.
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PARIS, 1880. 427
Very well then, I am going to make a prophecy —
I am going to die, but not immediately. That would be
too good, that would put an end to everything. But I am to
drag out my existence with colds, coughs, fevers, and all sorts
of things. . . .
Monday, October 4>th. — I sent to my Naples professor for
some mandoline music, and his reply has just come. I am
keeping his letter because, though written by a simple man,
its Italian phrasing is so charming. I must admit that, in
spite of my naturalistic tendencies (an expression little
understood), and my Republican sentiments, I am very
sensitive to these elegances of language.
Moreover, why can't these things harmonise ? But there,
we must leave this style to the Italians, in others it is
ridiculous. Oh, heavens! when shall I be able to go to
Italy ?
How dull everything else is after Italy ! No person or
thing has ever caused me such delights as the remembrance
of that country. Why cannot I go there at once ? But my
painting; am I advanced enough to go right without
guidance? I don't know.
No, I will stay in Paris for this winter ; I will go to
Italy for the carnival, and I will spend the winter of 1881-
82 at St Petersburg; I will come back to Paris or to
Italy from 1882 to 1883. And then I will marry a man
of title, possessing a yearly income of fifteen or twenty
thousand francs, who will oe delighted to take me with
my own income. Am I not truly wise to wait three years
before capitulating ?
Tuesday, October 5th. — You may be resigned — or, more
correctly, pull yourself together — ana, fathoming your inmost
soul, ask if it matters so much to have livea m one way
or in another. You may have conquered your feelings and
say, with Epictetus, that you are free to accept evil for
good — or, rather, to remain indifferent to what may
happen.
You must have suffered horribly to consent to quit life
by this species of death, and it is only after unheard of
sufferings and complete despair that you begin to under-
stand the possibility of such a living death. But, if you
could only settle down to it, you would at least be at
peace .... It would not be a vain dream ; it is a possi-
bility. But you'll say, Why live at all ? Since you have
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428 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
come into the world of men, it is evident that it becomes
useless to live on these terms. Indeed, it is only after
thoroughly realising that real life is a cause of endless evils,
that you accept the other, or that you hide yourself from the
first m the second.
At a certain pitch of physical pain we lose conscious-
ness, or fall into ecstasies ; the same happens with moral
sufferings which have reached a certain point. We soar, we are
astonished at having suffered, we despise everything, and we
walk with head erect like martyrs.
What matter, after all, whether the fifty years I have
to live are spent in a prison or in a palace, amid society or in
solitude? The end is the same. The sensations contained
between the beginning and the end, which leave no trace,
that's what occupies us. Of what importance is a thing
which does not last, and which leaves no trace ? I can
utilise my life by working ; I shall have talent ; perhaps that
may leave some traces . . . after death.
Saturday, October 9th. — I have not done any work this
week, and inaction makes me stupid. I have read over
my journey to Russia, and it interested me much. In
Russia I had partly read Mademoiselle de Maujnn, and
as it did not please me, I have just been reading it again ;
for, after all, Th6ophile Gautier is considered a man of
enormous talent, ana Mademoiselle de Maupin as a master-
piece, especially the preface. Well, I have read it over again
to-day. The preface is very good, certainly ; but the book ?
.... In spite of all its. . . . nudities, the book is not
amusing, some pages of it are simply boring. I hear people
exclaimmg, " Wnat about the language and the style ? " occ.
Ah ! heavens ! yes, it is in good French ; it is the work
of a man of ability in his trade, but it is not a sympathetic
talent . . . By-and-by perhaps I may understand why it is a
masterpiece. I do not mind admitting now that it is very good,
but it is antipathetic, and that bores me. It is the same
with George band .... another writer with whom I feel
no sjrmpathy ; and George Sand possesses in less degree than
Gautier, that vigour and boldness which make you respect, if
not like, him. George Sand .... is all very well. Amongst
modern writers I prefer Daudet ; he writes novels, but they
are sprinkled with just observations, with things that are true,
and which have been. One lives in them.
As for Zola, we are estranged. He has taken to attacking
Ranc and other Republicans in the Figaro with a persistency
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PARIS, 1880. 429
of bad taste which suits neither his great talents nor his high
literary position.
But what can we see in George Sand ? A novel, elegantly
written ? Yes ; but what more ? Well, her novels bore me ;
while Balzac, the two Dumas, Zola, Daudet, and Musset, never
do. Victor Hugo, in his most romantically crazy prose in
Han d'Islande, is never fatiguing, you feel the genius of it ;
but George Sand ! How can people read three hundred
pages full of the doings and gestures of Valentine and
Benedict, with an uncle, a gardener, and I know not
what?
Always the levelling of society by the means of love,
which is ignoble. That equality should be established
would be admirable, but it must not be due to sexual
caprices. The countess in love with her valet, and disser-
tations thereupon ! That is George Sand's talent. Certainly,
they are very beautiful novels, with beautiful descriptions
of scenery. . . But I should like something more. . .
I don't quite know how to put it. . . . One can't be-
lieve in that sort of thing. I always imagine that I
am addressing superior beings, before whom I am afraid
of talking pretentiously, whereas in general there are only
ordinary and inferior people, who never appreciate modesty
or an avowal of weakness. Well, I am reading Valentine
at the present moment, and it sets my nerves on edge, for
the book interests me just enough to make me finish it;
and at the same time I feel that I gain nothing from it —
only perhaps a vaguely disagreeable impression. This read-
ing seems to lower me. I revolt against it, but I go on,
for it would have to be as wearying as the Dernier
Amour, by the same author, to keep me from reading it
to the end. However, Valentine is the best work I
have read of George Sand's. Le Marquis de Villemer is
good, too. I do not think there is any groom in love with
the countess.
Sunday, October 10th. — Several visitors and Saint-
Amand ! We have some music, and he cries over Paul
and Virginia. I can understand this irresistible emotion.
I cried when I read that book, and the music at the
opera makes me weep at the same places. The most
sensational novels do not cause such a profound sadness.
Ah ! really I feel something like a wrench within me, and
I burst into tears.
If these lines be read people will think I am joking, or
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430 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
that I have gone mad, for I am apparently so philosophical
and critical.
I spent the morning at the Louvre, and I am amazed.
Until now I never understood as this morning. I looked
without seeing. It is like a revelation. I used to
look and to admire politely, like the great majority of
the universe. Ah ! when one sees and feels art as 1 do,
one has not an ordinary souL To feel that it is beautiful,
and to understand why it is beautiful — this is genuine
happiness.
Monday, October llth. — I begin to paint under the
influence of yesterday's excitement It is impossible not to
acquire talent when you have such revelations as I had
yesterday.
Tuesday, October 12th. — Yesterday I received the follow-
ing telegram from Poltava: — "All the nobility present to
you, through us, their congratulations on the occasion of
your father's unanimous election. We drink your health. —
Abaza — Manderstern."
Abaza is the one I knew in Russia — the greatest big-
wig in Poltava, after having been so at St Petersburg and
at Odessa
Manderstern is the MarechaZ de la Noblesse of the
province, as my father that of the district of Poltava.
Here is my telegraphic reply. I must be polite, for
family affairs are nobody's business: and further, it is a
sort of . . . How shall I express it? It sounds official,
nay, pompous : —
" Flattered by the gracious attention, I cordially thank the
worthy representatives of the nobility of Poltava, to whom I
wish a thousand prosperities. — Marie Bashkirtseff."
This is dignified and noble, it is like the telegram of
a great man, and then it is not in a telegraphic style,
witn all the adverbs, &c, left out Poor child, I pity
you!
I read Paul and Virginia again very attentively, and I
willingly excuse the somewhat strained naivetes of style in
the descriptions of the virtues of these good people. But I
have just been having a good cry.
You remember when Paul comes back from the neigh-
bours and calls from a distance to Marie, the negress, " Where
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PARIS, 1880. 431
is Virginia ? " Marie turns her head towards him and begins
to cry ; and I do so too.
Yes, it's atrocious really for this poor young fellow to
come back and not to find her. Then he runs to the rock
and sees the ship, which is now only a black speck. . . .
Here you feel mad for him.
And I cry, and cry again. And when Paul says to the
dog running before him, " There, you will never find her
again ! " it is more than I can endure. And Virginia's letter,
in which she sends Paul some violet seeds. Ah ! but the
awful moment is when she has gone, and he is looking
at the black speck on the horizon from the top of the
rock.
Bernardin de Saint-Pierre did not himself understand what
he wrote. It is a passage sublime in its simplicity, and
of incomparable emotion.
Friday, October 15th. — I have taken up again a portrait of
one of Julian's pupils, which I painted before this summer.
Not the one with the yellow hair, but another — an exquisite
creature. Brown hair shot with red, a freshness, and a
life ! A lovely complexion, but disposed to become pimply ;
adorable brown eyes, a divine mouth; with something
common, however, when seen full face — I am taking her in
profile. Her neck and arms are magnificent in colour and
form. She is twenty-five, and a widow, with a little boy of
five and a half. If that woman were a model I should take
her by the year.
And she nas lovely hands, too, and also a lovely skin. It is
impossible to render the extraordinary brilliancy of her face.
I have already an idea for the Salon with her. I am giving
her her portrait, and she has well earned it, for she sits like an
angel. I dressed her Greuze fashion, in a bodice of cream
damask, and a handkerchief of Indian muslin.
I shall never dare to ask her to sit for the Salon, it would
be a matter of a month. If I could think of a way to pay her,
but it is impossible. ... I have already asked her in joke to
sit for me, but seriously .... Ah ! what a model . . .
Something splendid could be made of her.
In the same way as I made white fashionable three years
ago, my crossed draperies and my sashes forming a point are
being copied now. It is very aggravating.
D D
Saturday, October 16th. — Amidst all sorts of nice things
/Googk
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432 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Tony said, " On the whole, I am very well satisfied ; you are
getting on welL"
The lesson follows. I am very pleased every Saturday. I
have fears, and then joys ! . . .
That is because it is the only thing I care about
seriously. My dazzling model, whose name is Mme. G ,
is quite willing to sit for a picture, on condition that it is
not too nude. I do not know what her position is, but I
presume that she is not obliged to work for her living,
for she comes to the studio to sit for me as much as I
like for her portrait. But it does not matter, she is really
very nice.
She promised me her hands and arms in exchange for
her son's head, but to sit for a whole picture ! Just think, it
is the work of six weeks perhaps. She is fresh, young, and
brilliant, with an indescribably touching and maternal look
in her face. I shall make her a handsome present
Tuesday, October 19th. — Alas ! it must all end in dying
miserably and slowly in a few years.
Well, I suspected that it would end so. Impossible to
live with a brain like mine, for I am like those children
who are too forward.
I wanted too many things to be happy, and circumstances
have so arranged themselves as to deprive me of every-
thing excepting physical comforts.
Two or tnree years ago, and even six months ago,
whenever I went to a hew doctor to get back my voice,
he used to ask me if I did not feel such and such a
symptom, and as I answered "No," he said, as nearly as
possible, "There is nothing the matter with the bronchial
tubes, nor with the lungs ; it is only the larynx." Now, I
am beginning to feel all those symptoms that the doctor
commenced oy supposing. Therefore the bronchial tubes
and the lungs must be affected. Oh ! but this is nothing
or almost nothing. Fauvel has ordered iodine and a blister ;
I naturally screamed with horror, I would rather have my
ami broken than endure a mustard plaster. Three years
ago in Germany, a doctor at the batns found out some-
thing the matter with my right lung under the shoulder-
blade. I laughed at it very much. Then again at Nice,
live years ago, I sometimes felt a sort of pain in that
place ; but men I felt certain that I was gettmg a hump,
as I had two humpbacked aunts, my father's sisters. And
again, a few months back, I was asked if I did not feel
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PARIS, 1880. 433
anything there, and, without thinking, I answered "No."
But now when I cough, or even take a long breath, I feel
the pain there on the right side in my back. All these
things together make me think that there is perhaps
something really the matter .... I take a sort of pride
in pointing out that I am ill, but I do not like it at alL
It is a horrible death, very slow, four, five, ten years
perhaps. And one gets so thin, so ugly.
I nave not got much thinner, I am just as I ought to
be ; but I have a tired look, and I cough a great deal ; my
breathing, too, is difficult. Just think of it ! For four
years I nave been under the care of the most celebrated
doctors ; have been taken to the baths, and not only have
I not recovered my beautiful voice — so beautiful that I cry
when I think of it — but I become worse and worse, and,
out with the horrid word, slightly deaf !
If death would but come quickly I should not complain.
Has it ever happened to you to be about to express in
words or in writing, that you no longer believe in something
that you have hitherto believed in ; and at the very moment
you were saying, " And to think that I believed it ! " — to be
re-captivatea by your first idea and to believe in it again, or at
least to entertam grave doubts about the new one ? This is
my mood in making a sketch for my new picture
While waiting for the artist, the model, a little fair woman, is
sitting astride on a chair smoking a cigarette, and looking at
the skeleton, between the teeth of which she has stuffed a
pipe. The clothes are scattered about on the floor on the
left ; on the right, the boots, a cigar-case open on the floor,
and a little bunch of violets. One leg is thrown over the
cross bar of the back of the chair, the woman is leaning on
her elbows with one hand under her chin. One stocking on
the floor and the other still hanging from her foot. That is a
very good arrangement as regards colour. By-the-bye I am
getting to be a good colourist. Ah ! I say that for fun ; but,
joking apart, 1 feel colour, and there is no comparison
between my painting of two months ago, before Mont Dore
and those of the present time.
You will see tnere will be no end of things to make me
cling to life when I am good for nothing, when I am ill and
disgusting.
Thursday, October 2lst. — I showed Julian the picture I
painted at Mont Dore. Of course, he bullied me, saying,
nevertheless, that certain modern artists would consider it
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434 MARIE BASHEIRTSEFF.
very good ; that it is a mixture of Bastien-Lepage and of
Bouvin ; that a touch more of work would make it almost a
good picture ; that there are some entertaining points about it ;
that in spite of all it is an entertaining picture, but that I paint
" like a nangman." About the sketch of the young woman
suckling her child, he simply remarked that a mot/ier does
not suckle with her bust quite bare. I had composed this in
a subdued key of colour. The woman is sitting in a low
chair of yellow plush, with her legs stretched out and her
feet bare; one foot rests on a stool, the face is in prolile,
the bust three-quarters. The child is sucking and at the
same time pushing the breast with its little hand. The back-
ground is formed by the bed-curtain ; and further back, in
the shade, is seen a palm in a blue china vase. It is very
subdued, but one shoulder at least ought to be covered.
As to the sketch of the model opposite the skeleton,
that touched him to the heart. lie said that it was
"just the thing," that "it was vulgar, disgusting," and I
added, " Yes, disgusting, and that is why it is the thing ; it is
nature."
"But ^ou cannot sign this. It would cause a scandal
But, sapristi, how natural! I do not mean to say that
you will become this instant a celebrated painter, but
you will certainly gain notoriety for this .... drollery of
mvention It is a picture to make people scream,
especially if it is known that it is by a woman — a young girl.
It is the same with me ; when I paint a picture people cover
their faces."
Friday, October 22nd. — It is raining ; it is cold, a sharp
biting cold ; it is dark. What is more, I feel like the
weather, and cough incessantly.
Ah ! what misery and what an atrocious existence ! At
half-past three it is no longer light enough to paint, and
if I read at night my eyes are tired for painting in the
morning. The few people whom I might see I avoid for
fear of not hearing what they say. On some days I can
hear very well, and not on others, and then it is a torment
I cannot describe. . . But God will put an end to me.
Besides, I am prepared to face all sorts of miseries on
condition of seemg nobody. Every ring at the bell makes
me shudder. This new and horrible misfortune makes me
afraid of all that I wished for. Nevertheless, I am always
very gay and very amusing to others. I laugh as much
as Mile. Samary, of the Th^atre-Franyais, but it is more
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PARIS, 1880. 435
a habit than a mask ; I shall always laugh. It is ended ;
not only do I think it is ended, but I wish it may be so.
I can find no word to describe my dejection.
Sunday, October 24>th. — I went to the Louvre. I always
go there alone, knowing that I shall not meet any acquaint-
ances there on Sunday morning. One only sees properly
when alone. I am fascinated oy the pictures of the last
century, their space is inimitable and exquisite. What a
charmmg period ! Do you think I was born for a laborious,
studious, or heroic life ? I should like to give myself
up to the most luxurious idleness wrapped m Watteau
and Greuze gauzes, and in Rigaud brocades. It is an ex-
quisite century, combining all the old witcheries with the
comforts of English dressing-rooms, whereas before this time
people hardly washed at all, or but very little ; and that
spoils for me all the fine adventures of olden times.
' Monday, October 25th. — I am reading Lex CkdtinienU.
It is true, Hugo is a genius. Shall I say that some of
his lyrical transports astonished, not to say, wearied me?
No, I don't think so. It is beautiful, it is sublime, and in
spite of the grand gesticulations, the perspirations, and the
frights, &c, it is human, natural, and beautiful. But I
like him above all in his touching simplicity. The last act
of Hemani, when Dofia Sol beseeches tne old man . . . and
the language of the grandmother whose child had re-
ceived two bullets in its head !
Friday, October 29th. — Having read a passage in the
Gospel extraordinarily in accordance with the thought that
guided me, I havtf a return to my old fervour and faith
m miracles, to Jesus Christ, and my impassioned prayers of
old days. For some time I had been satisfied with one
God, and my belief was very pure, very severe, and very
simple; but here I am returning to a religion more
familiar and more . . . consoling, more in touch with
the fears, the miseries, and the meannesses of my
nature.
The God-Man and the Virgin Mary seem to listen to
you more than the real God. . .
Monday, November 1st. — Our studio is getting like the
men's studio, that is to say we have the nude all day
long, the same model in the same attitude, therefore you
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436 MARIE BASHKIETSEFF.
can thoroughly study a large piece. I have been want-
ing this for two or three months, before that it would have
been of no use, but now I am just ready for that sort of work.
There are only eight of us ; the other pupils, twenty-two in
number, have moved into the new studio which Julian
has arranged at 51, Rue Vivienne, and which is organised
in the style of our old one.
Tuesday, November 2nd. — For about a week I have had
my breakfast brought from the house to the studio. This
is managed in a straw or cane apparatus such as
soldiers have. It is much more sensible than running
from the Rue Vivienne to the Champs-Elys£es and losing
the hours when the light is finest. §0 I work from eight
till twelve and from one to four o'clock
Wednesday, November 10th. — It is horrible to have worked
incessantly for three years only to find out that one knows
nothing.
Thursday, November llth. — Tony came, and as I explained
to him my discouragement, he tells me that this proves that I
am not blind, and he advised me to take up my studies, and
to go on working.
Well, it proves, any way, that I know luore about it
than I used to, for. I now see clearly. But how sad ! How
much encouragement I shall need ! I have made myself a
brown cloak, with a monk's hood, for the studio, when I
happen to be placed near the window, from which there is a
very devil of a draught. So I have a monk's hood, which has
always brought me ill luck I cried so much under this ill-
omened hood, that our good-natured Zilhardt, who had come
to see if it was not for fun, was quite aghast at it. I want to
paint a picture representing an expulsion of monks, so I went
to the Capuchins of the Rue de la SanttS and the three
remaining fathers told me about the disaster, and showed me
the scene of it. I offered hospitality to two fathers at Nice.
I trust they will not avail themselves of my offer.
Sunday, November 14th. — I was to have gone to Versailles
to see if the convent of the Capuchins would suit me, for it
was there they showed the most resistance.
In the courtyard of the convent devotional chairs are
E laced, where, in spite of the rain, the faithful come to kneel
efore the sealed door of the chapel. Excited women crying
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PARIS, 1880. 437
out that there is neither property nor law. . . . Heavens !
how mismanaged all this has been, and how the monks have
profited by it !
Will not Gambetta prove to be the strong man ? . . . .
For some man must come forward. . . . The Bona-
partist system, then? And what of principles, and the
Republic ? Oh ! do not fear, I shall not change ; indeed,
this subject, and the equality of man and woman, are the
only things to which I am sincerely attached. There are
some things which overawe my common sense; they are
rare, but, after all, when I am thoroughly convinced my-
self, nothing in the world makes me alter, and I even find
it very difficult not to proclaim my convictions from the
house-tops, so pleased and proud am I to have found it
out by myself, and to believe in it sincerely.
Because for many things, for nearly everything, alas ! I
only care .... very superficially .... for the sake of
talking, or so as not to be quite out of it, or for what
it may bring me. So then, a man is wanted, or rather, men ;
those who are directing us here are ridiculous and stupid ; it
is humiliating to the Republic. Don't think that the devo-
tional chairs m the rain have made too great an impression on
me. . . . Even if it were sincere it would not overcome
me.
The Church has lowered God, disfigured religion, or,
rather, has created, instead of the worship we owe to God,
a complicated religion, full of charlatanism, which must be
destroyed. The Capuchin father received us very ungraciously
through his wicket, telling us that for any information we
wanted, all we had to do was to inquire of the faithful. I
made a slight sketch of the courtyard, but it does not please
me better than the Rue de la Sant£, and I will arrange it a
little. But .... good heavens ! that is all.
Tuesday, November 16th. — I fear I exaggerated the other
day respecting the Church. I had pious remorse and was
within an ace of getting out of bed to come and make
the amende honorable here, for the Church is a means
of making God known; the Church has done a great deal
for morals; the Church has carried to the savages the
name of God and civilisation. Without offence to God, I
think they could have been civilised without Catholicism ;
but after all . . . the Church has been useful in the same way
as the feudal system, and like it, it has had, or nearly had,
its day. There are in Catholicism too many inadmissible and
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438 MARIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
revolting things, without being, however, absolutely odious.
The divine has been mixed with puerile legends. There are
too many enlightened people nowadays for pious falsehoods
to be respected. But it is a period of transition we are going
through, and unfortunately the masses are not yet educated
enougn to avoid passing from vain superstitions to the con-
tempt and denial of God.
There are some sincerely religious men, but are there
any sincere Royalists? . . . unless . . . that . . . for there
are some people who think that a monarchy is necessary
for the prosperity of certain countries. Fancy! I never
thought of it the other day when I was saying that one
must have the soul of a valet to like monarchy.
Let us suppose that the monarchy, a constitutional one
of course, makes the happiness of the people ; well, the
most proud and noble man can adhere to it sincerely, and
can even have a certain sincere attachment for the family
which has represented his country for centuries. But be-
tween this and the servile attachment to a particular race
there is a great difference !
But, as I said above, I hardly approve of a Monarchy,
although I am prepared to admit that one may be sincerely
attached to it, and believe in it from the bottom of ones
heart, on the aforesaid conditions.
This is certainly not possible in France, nor is it possible
to have a monarchy there which one could conscientiously
prefer to the Republic. Is there even a single candidate
who is not disgraced or dishonoured ? M. de Chambord ?
The d'Orl^ans who inevitably followed him ? But after all,
the d'Orl^ans, who were patiently borne with for centuries,
might become "that family which represents the country."
of which I was speaking just now, and the meannesses which
a court compels would be the sacrifice of one's personal
pride that one would make to one's country. . . . Doubtless.
But of what use is all this when there is a Republic which
possesses all the good points of the constitutional monarchy
and none of its bad ones, which is the finest and noblest
of governments ?
There is really something revolting in the sovereign
honours given to a dummy monarch, by a minister, or a
statesman of genius, who, no matter what he may do, will
always be the servant of a monarch who is a nothing,
a fool, and possibly an imbecile.
Friday, November 19th. — I made my negress come to
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the studio, where she sang for an hour instead of giving
me ray lesson at home.
The gas is lighted, and fifteen women, with Julian at
their head, take their places at the end of the studio, while
Madame Ponce and her guitar mount on to the model's
table amid a salvo of applause. Do you think I am gay ?
Nonsense ! . . .
Julian has abused my picture to the last degree. The
drawing is bad, cold in feeling, not true in tone, and the
effect badly conceived. After that, if I am not satisfied !
But I comfort myself a little by thinking that I knew it
was not good, and then it gives me less annoyance. Ah !
if I had thought it good and he had said that to me. . . .
But enough ! I see what painting is, and what it means
to paint from the nude life-size.
Ah ! I had reckoned on painting to make my mark !
Wait a bit, old lady !
I am afraid every minute of bursting into tears.
Saturday, November 27th. — The competition is over. I
wished to be able to give my opinion m advance about it
here, but I really can't. I do not like what I have done :
I have got sand in my eyes, and it was dark on the days
when I nainted my largest portions. I have been in full
swing only to-day, so I have re-painted the head entirely,
which looks the better for it. However, I don't like it ; . . .
but I must admit that it is the best
I am not at all sure that my drawing is as good as
I could make it, for though I judge myself always with
impartiality, one is taken by surprise sometimes. When I
received tne medal I thought I had made a fright . . .
But one must not trust to that ... On the whole, I
should like to have it — it would raise my spirits. And
then it would prove that I had painted a head approved
by Tony, Bouguereau, Lefebvre, and Boulanger. You know the
medal is given only when it is deserved. If there is nothing
to deserve it, the drawings are numbered, and that is all
Wednesday, December \si. — When I leave the studio, I
call for Mme. de D , and we go to 12, Rue Cail, to
Mile. Hubertine Auclerc. It is a Wednesday! We had
rung three times in vain, and had gone down again, and
were conferring with the concierge, when a young woman
came to the lodge. We had paused undecided. I recognised
her at pj*ce,
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440 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
The concierge calls us back, and Mlla Auclerc invites
us to go up. " Droits ilex Femniex — siege mcinl" These
words, written on the door, had already given me — before
the arrival of the young lady — a fit of enthusiasm as of
old, and I pretended to hug Mine, de D .
Very poor, simple, and bare is the office. She lights a
fire, sits (town in front of the fireplace, Mme. de D on
her right hand, and myself on ner left My companion
begins:- then I said that I could not help feeling great
emotion in the presence of the woman who nas so
courageously taken up the defence of our rights. Mme.
de D is French, and the widow of an Englishman —
Norskott. I am of foreign origin, but brought up in
France, and am called Pauline Orelle. My secret aim is
to paint Hubertine's portrait for the Salon. I adopt the
pseudonym of Daria for my painting. Very pretty, very
simple ! — it is a Russian baptismal name. In fact, she will
do well for a painting — dark, rather a blotched complexion,
but the weather is cold, and has been so for some days.
Small hands, rather red ; small feet. Very nice appear-
ance and language. She is sympathetic and amiable, her
accent not very distinguished. Sne gives us a programme
and a little pamphlet: we shake hands: we join them,
promising to come again, and to pay our subscription of
twenty-five francs per month, and attend the meetings.
" Next Wednesday at eight o'clock ! "
I was friendly, and said to her that the principal argu-
ment of the Reactionists — the ugliness, age, and grotesque
appearance of the ladies who attended the lectures —
do not apply in her case, as she was so young and
pretty.
I am satisfied ; no not yet, for it may turn out badly.
Does not everything turn out badly ? We shall sea
Sunday, December 5th. — Doctor Potain comes this morning
and insists on my going to the South until March, or else I
shall soon be unable to breathe, or to leave my bed. A nice
thing ; for five years I have been doing all that the
celebrities have ordered, and I get worse ana worse. I went
so far as to lay hands on my beauty. I painted my right
collar bone with iodine, and I feel no better. Is it possible
that my continual worries can have injured my health ? But
still the larynx and the bronchiie are not usually subject to
moral affections. I can't telL I do what they order me ; I
avoid running risks, washing only in warm water, and still J
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PARIS, 1880. 441
am ilL Villevielle told me yesterday that Tony, who came
on Saturday to correct, had asked to see our competitive
pictures, and thought my eyes were strangely drawn, but
that there was something good in it, and some very beautiful
points and charming tones. He is not pleased with the
competition generally. If I do not get the medal, I shall
have nevertheless done a fair study.
Wednesday, December 8th. — This evening the citizenesses
Alexandrine Norskott and Pauline Orelle were present at the
weekly meeting of the "Women's Rights" society which
takes place in Hubertine's little drawing-room.
A lamp on the desk, at the left ; on the right is the
mantelpiece surmounted by a bust of the Republic ; and in
the centre with its back to the window, which itself is
opposite the door, is a table covered with bundles of papers
and boasting a candle, a bell, and a president, who looks very
dirty and very stupid. At the president's left sits Hubertine,
who looks down every time she speaks and rubs her hands
all the time. At his right, a violent and withered old female
Socialist is screaming : " That if there is any fighting to be
done, she will be the first to do it." There were about
twenty queer old types, a sort of female concierges, just
dismissed from their lodges, and a few men — what rift-raff* you
may imagine ; some of those young fellows with long hair,
worn in outrageous style, who cannot get a hearing in the
cafes. I am wearing a very dark wig, and my eyebrows are
blackened. The men ranted on socialism, collectivism, and
the treacheries of the most advanced deputies. The red lady
in the corner declared war against religion ; whereupon Mme. de
D (Norskott) protested, and made several remarks which
went off like shots and did good. However, Hubertine is
very wise, and understands that it is not a question of
proletaires or of millionaires, but of woman in general, who is
claiming her rights. These are the grounds on which they
ought to take their stand; instead of which they discuss
shades of political opinion.
Our names have been entered, we have voted, paid our
subscriptions, &c. There !
Monday, December IStL — I despise scandal-mongering,
but I can't prevent it and by this appearance of indifference
I put my mind at Vest .... and so manv people speak evil
that I have at last become accustomed to it. You know my
life, you can judge me, I do not say this for you to praise
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442 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
my virtues, for my imprudences and my follies are enough to
blacken me considerably. Well, it is done, let it pass. I
accept the responsibility of it all the same, but allow me the
extenuating circumstances.
Tuesday, December 2\st. — I have no buzzing in my ears
now, and hear very well.
Wednesday, December 22nd. — The medal is given to a
drawing from the Rue Vivienne, by a new pupil, an American
girl. And I am first mentioned.
Thursday, December 23rd. — As it was getting late I
left the portrait, and commenced to make a sketch,
always with a view to the Salon. Julian comes in,
and he thinks it very pretty, so I go with him into
the ante-room, and ask him if that might do. Oh
yes, very well; but it is a young lady's subject, and
tame, and he thought I might iind something more
striking. And then ne reproaches me, for the tenth time
at least, for not having painted the portrait of Mme. N
on a larger scale, and with more drapery, for the Exhibition
in fact I must tell you that he worries m this way every time
I mention the Salon. But to make you understand what
effect this has upon me, I must tell you that this portrait
does not please or amuse me ; that I am doing it out of
food nature ; that the model has nothing captivating ; that
am doing it because I promised to in an expansive
moment. This idiotic good nature would lead me to give
away everything, and makes me rack my brain to think what
I might suitably offer, and how I could best give pleasure
to everybody. And do you think that this rarely happens ?
It is nearly always so, excepting when I am feeling too
bored .... and even then ....
It is not even a quality ; it is my nature to try to make
everybody happy, and to burden myself with silly emotions !
You did not know this, and I pass for a selfish person. Well,
make it all fit in together.
So this portrait that I should like to finish soon is thrust
under my nos^ every minute for this Exhibition, which
has engrossed me for a year, about which I dream, and on
which I base such fine hopes. It really seems that I am
to be prevented from exhibiting anything ; I say it seems,
because it would be too cruel for me if you thought it might
be true. And again, always this tiresome portrait, which he
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PARIS, 1880. 443
says I should be wise to do at the studio, as I should do it
better so.
Well, there goes my Salon picture.
This said, you will not be surprised that I reached home
with my teeth clenched, and fearing to make a movement
lest I might burst into tears and weep as I do now. Besides, I
must have been mad to think that there was anything possible
for me !
Oh void !
Now all is embittered, and the Salon question would make
me shriek. Is this then what I have come to after three
years' work ?
" You must have a phenomenal success," said Julian.
But I have not been able. It is three years, and what
have I done ? What am I ? Nothing. That is to say, I am
a good pupil, and that is all ; but the phenomenon, the
thunder-clap, the flash ? . . .
It comes upon me like a great unexpected disaster ....
and the truth is so cruel, that I am already trying to think
that I exaggerate. Painting has kept me back; as far
as the drawing was concerned I " astonished " the masters ;
but I have been painting for two years. I am above the
average, I know, I even show extraorainary aptitude, as Tony
says ; but I wanted something else. However, it isn't there ;
but I am broken down by it as by a great blow on the head,
and I cannot think of it for a moment without feeling horribly
bad. And oh ! my tears !
Here is a way to improve one's eyes ! I am lost, I am
done for, dead, and what a fearful rago! I am heart-broken
at myself. Oh, mon Diew ! . . .
I feel mad when I think that I may die in obscurity. I
am too despairing for it not to happen.
Friday, December 2Uh. — Having had bad dreams, I go to
the studio, where Julian makes me the following offer
" Promise me that the picture shall be mine, and I will give
you a subject which will bring you fame, or at least notoriety
for six days after the opening of the Salon."
I naturally promise.
He makes the same proposal to A , and after making
us write and sign the agreement, with Magnan and Madeleine
as witnesses, half laughing, half seriously, ho takes us to his
private room, and suggests to me that I should paint one
corner of our studio, with three persons in the foreground,
life-size, with others as accessories. And for A he
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444 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
suggests the whole of the studio at 53, Rue Vivienne, on
a small scale.
He goes on pointing out to us the advantages of this
subject for a good half hour, after which I go back to my
portrait agitated and with a headache, and I can do nothing
all day. The results of yesterday.
As for the subject, it does not fascinate me, but it may be
very amusing; and then Julian is so taken with it, and so
convinced. He quoted so many examples which had been
successful. A woman's studio had never been painted. Be-
sides, as it would be an advertisement for him, he would do
all in the world to give me the wonderful notoriety he speaks
about. A great thing like that is not easy. . . . But we
shall see.
At half past three we go down with Villevielle, intending
to go and look at the stalls on the boulevards, but having
. wished to glance at the master's new studio, we go in there.
Villevielle, who plays like a virtuoso, sits down at the piano,
and I compose doggerel verses for the master. At this
moment he comes in, and we spend two hours with him and
my aunt, who had come to fetch me. The studio is very
pretty, quite close to the men's studio, on the entresol.
A speaking-tube communicates with the ladies' third floor.
It was not bad fun ; there was much talk about the
picture. Julian would like it for several reasons : first of all,
because he has not time to do it himself; secondly, to be
civil to me ; and thirdly, to tease Breslau, and to give a proof
of my power to all those who will not believe in me. All
this is very well, but I am beginning to suspect that he
is offering me this thing so that I may get muadled with it,
and not get anything done. It is stipulated that this picture
is to belong to him, in whatever condition I leave it I
very amiably tell him my suspicions, and he answers that
I do not believe a word of what I am saying.
Well, after all, our studio is small ; there are only twelve of
us, but that is enough to make it difficult for me, considering
the size of my canvas ; for really one cannot ask the pupils to
remain motionless, and to sit to me for two months. I cannot
see how I am to do it. I should like to paint something else,
but what ?
Sunday, December 26th. — Potain wants me. to leave. I
positively refuse, and then, half in fun, half in earnest, I
complain of my family. I ask him whether crying and
fuming every day can injure the throat. Without doubt
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PARIS, 1880. 445
.... I will not go away. Travelling is delightful, but not
with iny own family, with their little depressing worries. I
know I should be in command, but they weary me and
then — no, no, no!
Besides, I cough very little, but all this makes me
miserable. I cannot see any way out of it ! out of what ?
I do not know at all, and my tears choke me. Do not
think they are the tears of a girl because she is un-
married ; no, these are not like the others. After all ... .
it may be, though I think not.
And then, such sad things all round me, and no, possi-
bility of crying out My poor aunt leads such a solitary
life, we see so little of each other; I spend my evenings
reading or playing.
I can neither speak nor write about myself lately with-
out bursting into tears. I must be ill ... . Ah ! vain
lamentations ! Does not everything lead to death ?
What is there in us, that in spite of plausible
arguments, in spite of the consciousness that all leads to
nothing, we should still grumble. I know that, like every-
one else, I am going on towards death, and nothingness. I
weigh the circumstances of life, and, whatever they may
be, they appear to me miserably vain, and for all that I
cannot resign myself! Then it must be a force, it must
be a something, not merely " a passage," a certain period
of time which matters little whether it is spent in a palace
or in a cellar; there is then something stronger, truer
than our foolish phrases about it all! It is life, in
short, not merely a passage, an unprofitable misery; but
life, all that we hold most dear, all that we can call ours,
in short.
People say it is nothing, because we do not possess
eternity. Ah, the fools ! Life is ourselves, it is ours, it is
all that we possess ; how then is it possible to say that it
is nothing? If this is nothing, show me something!
Thursthiy, December 30th. — I went to Tony's, and have
come back slightly comforted. He very much wants me to
Saint this picture {V atelier). I am quite capable of
oing it life-size; he says it would be very amusing. A
good study and picture at the same time. I must not be
received by favour, but by merit ; if it turns out badly he
will tell me so; but he thinks I shall succeed fairly well,
and prevails upon me to do it. Then we talked about
myself generally: we both agree on this point,' that my
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446 MARIE BA8HKIBT8EFF.
qualities for painting are slow to reveal themselves, but
he says that it often has that effect, and then it comes,
and that after all, nothing has ever been exacted after
three years' work; that I want to get on too quickly, that
he is convinced I shall succeed; and I know not what
In fact I have told him so often not to spare me, I have
insisted so much on being told the truth, that I believe
he has been sincere. Besides, he has no interest in not
telling the truth ; and, after all, what he has said is not
anything so tremendous. So here I am wound up again,
and ready to paint the picture.
What a kind and amiable fellow this Tony is ! He says
that the most talented have only attained a small begin-
ning of something after about ten years 1 work That
Bonnat after seven years' study was nothing ; that he
himself exhibited only at the eighth year. . . In short,
I know that, but as I reckoned on being successful at
twenty, you understand my reflections. At midnight I
grow suspicious again. Tony seems too confident m my
powers ; I am looking for some awful trap.
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447
CHAPTER IX.
PARIS, BERLIN, RUSSIA, BIARRITZ, SPAIN, 1881.
Saturday, January 1st. — I gave a bouquet to A to
wear. She kissed me twice, and as we were alone I ques-
tioned her on the progress of her love, about its com-
mencement, and she told me about it. It has lasted for
six years now, without any change at all She knows
his step on the stairs, and the way in which he opens the
door, and each time it afiects her as it did in the first days.
I understand it ; if it were otherwise it would no longer be
the same love. They say you get used to one another, that
the sensations lessen ; you see it's an error, and the love
which changes or becomes tame is not the true love.
I should have a horror of changing. Very few persons
are fortunate enough to feel real love, which is eternal
even .when it is not returned.. People in general are
incapable of experiencing so complete a feeling, or else
they are drawn away from it, or prevented, ana they are
satisfied with fragments which do change; that is what
makes a great many people shrug their shoulders when
you speak of eternal or unique love, which is a very rare
thing.
Real love may not be eternal, but it is always unique.
Sunday, January 2nd. — I open Flamarande, by George
Sand, and it is a flunkey who tells the whole story ; it is
disgusting. The first twenty lines are sufficient for me.
I am a Republican, and that is just the reason why I can-
not consider flunkeys as equals. A servant loses certain
rights when he consents to serve. . . It is odious to be
always pottering about with servants as George Sand does
In spite of my indignation I read Flamarande, which is
the author's best work. The servants are in their proper
places and the book is exquisite.
As I read very fast I finish the book, which is charming.
I am going to read Lea Deux Freres, which ends the volume.
Monday, January 3rd. — I finished Les Deux Freres at
half-past twelve in the morning; it is pretty, but I have
gained nothing by it. Balzac !
£ £
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US MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Julian will not allow the partition to be opened until
Sunday ; during the week it would disturb the pupils.
Therefore I lose a week ; I have in all only ten weeks left,
which is not long. And again I think that Tony and
Julian are encouraging me to commence the picture, know-
ing that I shall not get through it But what is their
object ? Nescio.
Wednesday, January 5th. — Tony arrives at the studio
at the same time as myself this morning. I show him a
little sketch and we taflc of the picture. The room I am
to work in is auite small, even with the partition down,
it won't be a joke considering the dimensions of the can-
vas. Well ! . . .
And then the notion of having it done by two people, it
creates a sort of competition, which is very depressing. With
all my brave airs, I am very nervous, and when A
is there, I am half paralysed, and can't place a person in
position, nor .... it is very embarrassing ; and then
it irritates me that two should be working at the same
subject.
Ah ! this picture bores me. Ah ! I should like to do
something else. Ah! these ups and downs are unbearable!
A word elates or crushes me, and in order to save me from
despair, Tony and Julian must pass their lives in singing my
praises. When they only give advice, without either praise or
blame, I am prostrate.
Friday, January 7th. — I relate all these rascalities I suffer
from to the ladies at home, and as every one agrees with me,
it's another proof that I am right. Some of them say that
they had thought me firmer than to allow myself to be im-
posed upon. I admit it, but it is so lovely to leave
duplicity and intrigues to others. I said "leave;" it is not
exactly that I leave it to them, because I know myself to be
utterly incapable of intrigues and mischief-making. It is so
wearying, so tiresome, in fact, I don't know what to do. And
then it. is also a satisfaction to know oneself to be better
than others. To be imposed upon, and to know it — why,
it's a delicious feeling, it's almost a patent of honesty and
candour. . . . And then there's conscience. ... To have a
clear conscience, and to see the meanness of others, to see
oneself clean, and others soiled, even to the prejudice of one's
own interests ! But prejudice almost disappears under these
conditions ; the more one feels victimised, the more enjoyable
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PARIS, 1881. 449
it is. Evidently, at the first inkling, I ought to have said, " If
that is the case, I will not paint your picture." . . . But that
would fill A with joy, she would see her efforts crowned
with success. If I do not withdraw, it is solely for that reason.
I say all this aloud, and add that I will let things go as
they like, feeling convinced that A will not do anything
to hamper me so horribly. I pretend to believe that it is
impossible, and so I put a good face on the matter.
Saturday, January 8th. — I have a real passion for books.
I arrange them, count them, and look at them ; even this heap
of old books makes my heart rejoice ; I go to a distance to look
at them as if they were a picture. I have about seven
hundred volumes, but as they are nearly all of large size,
they would make much more in the ordinary size.
Sunday, January 9th. — Potain refuses to keep me under
his treatment, as I do not follow his directions.
Ah ! I should love to go away — to Italy, to Palermo ! Ah !
the pure sky ! Ah ! the blue sea ! Ah ! the beautiful calm
nights ! Tne very thought of Italy drives me mad ! It is like
something very beautiml, for which you are not prepared.
No, that isn't it. . . . I don't know how to express myself.
... It seems to me like a great final happiness, towards
which I should like to go, only when free of all preoccu-
pation, of all trouble. When I say to myself, " Let us go ! " I
immediately think, "No, not yet; I have still to fight, to
work, and, after that, I know not when, final rest — Italy." . . .
I ask myself what there is there ? . . . . but the effect on me
is enchanting, magical, and inconceivable.
Qh yes; to go away! Since Charcot, Potain, and all
the others, tell me to go, I must be very ill. I feel that the
warm air yonder would cure me at once ; but it is their fault.
Why aoes not mamma come back ? They say that it is
only a caprice on my part. Be it so ; but it is always so.
However ... all is over. Still one more year perhaps ;
1882 is the great date of my childish dreams. It was
1882 that I marked out as a culminating point, without
knowing wherefore. Perhaps it will be death. This evening
at the studio the skeleton was dressed up as Louise Michel,
with a red scarf, a cigarette, and a palette knife for a dagger.
There is a skeleton in me also ; we all end by that ! Horrible
emptiness !
This morning I had already made a sketch — the Madeleine
Flower Market. A beautiful Parisian lady, with a little boy,
E e 2
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450 MARIE BA8KKIRT8EFF.
buying from an old market woman just coming out of her
shop, which is full of flowers. The only thing to do is to
paint what one sees ; it is very natural ; quite Frisian ; very
entertaining to paint and to look at, and perfectly easy to
do in my studio. And then all these flowers, it is delightful ;
and it is easier than a set task, and more quickly done, and
I can do it quietly at home . . . Well, I must see what Tony
says, for Julian is bent on his shop.
Wednesday, January 12th. — All is settled. I begin my
plans, sketches, &c, and as I think A will give up ner pic-
ture, I will do mine, half life-size, and with many people in it
Thursday, January 13th. — (January l«f, the Russian
^New Year's Day.) I still cough a little, and breathe with
difficulty, but without any perceptible change, neither
emaciation nor paleness. Potain does not come any mora
It seems that my illness needs only air and sunshine ; Potain
is honest, and does not wish to cram me with useless
medicines ; but I am taking asses' milk and elatine. I
know that one winter in the sunshine would have cured
me, but . . pfY know better than anybody what is the
matter with me. My larynx has always been subject to
disease, and continual agitations have contributed very much
to it ; in short, I have nothing the matter but this cough and
my ears. That is nothing, as you can see. ^
Saturday, January 1 5th. — I have begun work with M.
Cot, who is going to take alternate days with Tony. I did
not show him anything, though Julian had pointed me out
as the person of wnom he had spoken.
" Is it Mademoiselle," he said, "who is to do this?" pointing
to the large canvas which they had so much difficulty in
bringing in yesterday.
" Yes, Monsieur, most certainly ; I am to paint this picture,
under lock and key."
Julian then came to tell me that he had mentioned me
to Cot as a very interesting pupil, &c. &c, and that if I had
not shown him anything, it was out of shyness. All this, and
more too, for the purpose of overcoming my dislike to receive
advice.
As for Tony, he is an eminent man, a real artist, an
academician, a nigh-art painter, and lessons from such people
are always excellent In painting, as well as in literature,
learn the grammar first, then your instinct will tell you
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PARIS, 1881. 451
whether you had better compose dramas or little ballads.
So if Tony were to be murdered, I should choose Letebvre,
Bonnat, or even Cabanel . . . which would be distressing
to me. Painters with temperaments like Carolus, Bastien-
Lepage, Henner, force you against your will to imitate them ;
at that game you only learn the faults of those you copy . . .
it is saia And then I should not like as a master a painter of
single figures ; I like to see a painter surrounded by a heap of
historical pictures ; it makes nim an environment, peoples it,
and makes me listen to his advice, though I often prefer a
single figure to five or six pictures with thirty persons in each.
On the whole, this (Jot looks good-natured — his debut
touches me. He is quite forty-seven, but neither stout nor
bald, and he chatted gaily enough in the studio at No. 51.
He was quite new when he came to us : over there he unbent
The most uninteresting face in the world can be made
interesting by certain arrangements. I have seen heads
of the most ordinary models become superb — thanks to a
hat, a Tarn O'Shanter, or a drapery. All this is modestly
to inform you that every evening, when I come in from
the studio, dirty and tired, I wash myself, put on a white
garment, and drape my head with a fichu of Indian muslin
and lace, like Chardin's old women and Greuze's little rirls.
It makes my head more charming than you could tnink
possible. . . . This evening the rather large fichu is
arranged as the Egyptians wear them, and I don't know
how it is, but my face has become magnificent As a
feneral rule, this epithet seems to clash with my face,
ut the drapery has worked the miracla This makes me
cheerful
This has now become a habit To be without anything
on my head in the evening makes me uneasy, and "my
sad thoughts" like to be under cover. I reel more at
home, more at rest
Thursday, January 20th. — Let us talk of pleasant
things. I went to Tony's, to show him my sketch, which
he thinks very well arranged: he gives me some good
advice, a great deal of encouragement, and his blessing on
beginning to-morrow.
"You have never painted a large picture," he says.
"Never!"
" And you do not know a word of perspective ? "
" M. Ingres did not, either."
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452 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
" Was he jesting, then ? "
" Absolutely ! You are about to encounter enormous
difficulties. Look well about you, and have good courage.
Good courage!"
Good courage! I am made up of courage — upon my
word ! I am quite cheerful and pleased.
Friday, January 21st — Without hurrying myself, I go in
the morning to breakfast with the G s, whom I have
very much neglected ; after which, at half-past eleven, I
arrive at the studio, and commence my picture with very
great pleasure. From the first stroke you feel whether it
will go smoothly, or whether it will go "against the grain."
Thame God ! I think it is coming of itself. Mile, do
Villevielle posed, and then a little Turkish girL I will
first draw all my figures in crayon, then, when looking at
the whole, we shall see what alterations are to be made.
It amuses me ! I am well in health, and gay ! The
heads in the foreground measure from twelve to fourteen
centimetres.
1 have not yet understood how one can give one's life
for a being whom one loves — a perishable being — >for whom
you sacrifice yourself, because you love him. . . . But
on the other hand, I do understand enduring tortures,
and even dying for a principle — for liberty, for some-
thing which will better the condition of mankind in
general.
I should myself defend all these fine things as much
in France as in Russia. One's country must be considered
after humanity ; the distinctions between nations only con-
sist in shades of difference after all, and I am always for
simplifying and widening such questions.
If I don't go and make them transport me, it is because
it is useless — and I hate what is useless. It is not cowardly
to choose one's part, and it is quite natural to prefer to be
martyred, like Saint Paul, than to be amongst the eleven
thousand virgins. I admit in all candour that I should be
distressed to be an unknown heroine, but I swear to
you ....
Here I stop short. I was about to swear before God,
and I am not quite sure that He exists. I think this
without fear. If God exists, He could not be offended with
my doubts, which are only an avowal of my ignorance.
I should take good care not to deny the existence of God,
$md I cannot sincerely affirm it when in cold blood. Oh ! in
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PARIS, 1881. 453
moments of anguish I am not so argumentative; I fall on
my knees and invoke this God, of whom I am sure, then !
It seems to me nevertheless that there must be a supreme
intelligence ! . . . but not the God to whom I am accustomed
. . . But then of what use is this supreme intelligence ? . . .
But I was about to . . . yes, to swear before God that I
would give everything, even to the last drop of my blood,
to help in saving some great principle dear to me.
I am calm ; not a Louise Michel, not a Nihilist at all ;
but if I thought liberty in danger I should be the most
furious of them all
Saturday, January 22nd. — It is cold, there is snow every-
where ; I go out before eight o'clock every morning.
The picture entertains me. Cot has seen it, but he only
says insignificant things, such as "It looks well at first
sight, not bad," and then encouragements.
It is true that this is the first time I have been corrected.
Cot has gone, Tony has come. I had asked him by letter to
do so ; it is very kind of him. Tony finds nothing to change
and no hitch, and says that I am not getting on at all
badly ; that it can be made very interesting, ana that I can
but continue.
Julian comes next, and he is also kind. I can see that
my work interests him, for he comes back often to look, at
it, encouraging and advising me. It is all going on so well
that I can't believe in it. Now for two months of forget-
fulness, of amusement and happiness.
After which I will go for a tour in Italy, until the
opening of the Salon ; three months and a half of pleasant
life, it seems to me impossible ; everything would be good.
Wednesday, January 26th. — Tuesday, after returning
from the studio I felt in a fever, and remained until seven
o'clock without light, shivering in a chair, half asleep, and
with the picture always before my eyes as I have had it
evenr night for the last week.
You must know that A has settled herself at the
other end of the studio and is drawing my picture reversed,
and each time she wishes to surpass me, she thinks she
will manage it by taking measurements all the time; and
that outstretched arm, that hand with the piece of char-
coal, and her black perspective lines, dance in my eyes be-
fore my own picture.
Having taken a little milk only, the night was still
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454 MARIE BASHKIBTSEFF.
more extraordinary ; I was not asleep, for I rang the alarm
clock several times, but the picture was always there and
I was working at it; only I was doing the very opposite
of what I ought to do, compelled by a supernatural power
to obliterate what was good. Oh! it was dreadful! and I
could not keep still I was as restless as a tiend trying to
believe that it was a dream, but no! But can it be
delirium ? . . . I asked myself. I thought it was, and now
I know what it was and should not mind, if it were not for
the fatigue in my legs and all over me.
But the best of it is that, weak as I was, I waited for
Julian to ask his opinion on a figure I had changed.
Yesterday he came and said that I had done very wrong.
I had obliterated what was good prior to the dream. And
yesterday evening, by a curious phenomenon, I could hear
very, very well indeed
I feel shattered.
Monday, January Slst — Julian and Tony, especially
Julian, for he has seen it more often, are satisfied with the
picture. They told me so severaj times, and I was satisfied
with it myself, and very much excited. Now it all falls to the
ground ; 1 am no longer satisfied with my composition, and in
spite of repeating to myself that Tony has seen it twice and
has told me that it is very well groupied and interesting, and
that I must not change anything, I have lost confidence. Julian
also tells me not to alter anything. In fact, everybody thinks
it good, especially a group in the middle distance, which is
considered very pretty ; out I am not satisfied. I see it
differently; alterations are not to be thought of, it is too
late .... besides. . . .
It is curious all the same that so many things in this
{icture shock me and do not shock either Julian or Tony. . . .
t is because they think I can do no better, and do not wish
to let me run further in a wild-goose chase.
Thursday, February 3rd. — There before my eyes I have
the portraits of mv mother and inv father when they were
engaged. I have hung them on the wall as a document.
According to Zola ana other more renowned philosophers,
you must know the cause to understand the effect I was
born of a young, healthy, and exceedingly beautiful mother,
with brown hair and eyes, and a dazzling skin ; and a father
who was fair, pale, and delicate in health, himself the son of a
very vigorous father and a delicate mother, who died young ;
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PARIS, 1881. 455
the brother of four sisters all more or less deformed from birth.
. . . Grandpapa and grandmamma had good constitutions,
and had nine children, all healthy and, tall, and some of them
handsome, for example, mamma and Etienne.
The delicate father of the illustrious offspring who
occupies our thoughts has become strong and well, and the
mother, brilliant with health and youth, has grown weak and
nervous, thanks to the horrible existence which she has had
to endure.
I finished LAssommoir the day before yesterday ; it nearly
made me feel ilL So much was I struck by the truth of the
book, that I seemed to live and converse with those people.
I was indignant at living and eating while all these horrors
were going on around me, lower down. . . . Everybody ought
to read this book, it would make people better. . . . But I
am grown calmer, especially as it woula be impossible for me
to do anything alone. Who dare ignore the social problem ?
Yes ! yes, everybody must take it up. Ah, yes, it must be
so ! But Socialists are treated as rabble and as fools, and the
Socialists often turn to Utopia. O chaos ! and I am not
even capable of writing a newspaper article.
Monday, February 7th. — My picture, which was out of
order for an instant, owing to a figure which would not
come right, is progressing again. I feel as light as a feather.
At one o'clock, Villevielle and Brisbane, my principal
models, who are infinitely obliging, come with me to the
Mirlitons.
I do not know if I looked carelessly, or if my eyes are
opened, or if Ca^olus is making progress ; but I am astounded
by his portrait — the woman with the little girl in red — I, who
did not like Carolus (his red child at the last Salon and his
blue woman disgusted me). But the two portraits this time
are the most beautiful that can be seen. I still prefer the
woman with the child, to the woman alone, who is old and
made up. It is a great surprise. The woman is not
beautiful, but she is a fine woman, sympathetic, and motherly,
with a plum-coloured Louis XIII. dress, her breast bare and
luminous. The light is carried on to the fair head of the
child and is lost in the right hand of the woman, which rests
on the child's shoulder. The left hand holds a fan and
droops carelessly. Pearls are in her hair and on her arms ;
the hands are slightly done, and towards the bottom the
painting is very scamped, in order to bring out the faces and
the breast. It is a piece of superb light on a moss-green
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456 MARIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
background And how splendidly treated ! It has breadth !
And such a look of nature !
I like that better than the smoky and dead things in the
museums. My favourite, Bastien-Lepage, is exhibiting the
face of the Prince of Wales in the costume of Henry IV.,
with the Thames and the English fleet as a background.
The tone of the background reminds you of La Joconde. The
head is coarse, it looks just like a Holbein. You might take
it for one ; I don't admire this. Why imitate ? If it were a
copy, but it is not a copy ; well it is extremely well done for
an imitation. .... I don't like it
Oh ! if I could paint like Carolus Duran ! . . . This is the
first time that I find anything worth wishing for, something
that I like for myself m painting. After having looked at
that, everything else seems mean, dry, and dirty.
Saturday, Fefyruary 12th. — I had just had my picture put
into perspective, and then I saw that it changed everything.
I ought not to have seen what I saw ; but I ought to have
supposed myself six yards off, so that my eyes saw the ladder
benmd the head of Mile, de Villevielle, and perspective
showed me that it ought to be seen much more to the left I
do not understand how one can do what one does not see.
And besides, when you draw correctly you ought not to make
any faults of perspective. Perspective is necessary when
drawing a temple, a pillar, and things of that kind; but a
simple studio with women! I have lost four or five days
with all this ; at last Tony comes and says I am right
Use perspective when it agrees with your arrangement, but if
it spoils the composition ! Gammon ! You can come to
terms with it. Besides, how can you do a thing wrong, if you
do exactly what you see ?
Tony persists in being satisfied, and tells me to go on
painting.
I am delighted.
At twelve o'clock the maid comes running in with her
face flushed with exciteirtent M. Julian has been decorated.
General rejoicing ; this puts a stop to all that is going on in
the house ; we are jubilant ; and A , Neuv^glise, and I,
hurry off to order a splendid basket of flowers with a large
red bow from Vaillant-Roseau. Vaillant-Roseau is not an
ordinary florist, he is a clever artist ; one hundred and fifty
francs — that is not too much. We attach to it a card bearing
these words : " To M. Julian, from the ladies of the studio
of Panorama Passage,"
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PARIS, 1881. 467
Villevielle comes back purposely at three o'clock to con-
fratulate the master; he comes up with his ribbon, and I
ave the pleasure of seeing, for the first time in my life, a
perfectly happy man. He admits it himself. — "There are,
perhaps, some people who wish for something, but I, just
at present, do not wish for anything else in the world ! "
Then we so down, Villevielle and myself, to the studio of
our decorated master to see the basket ; joy, congratulations,
and even a little emotion. He speaks to us of his old mother,
whom he is afraid of startling by telling her the news too
suddenly ; and of an old uncle, who would cry over it like a
child.
Only think. It is a village yonder. You see the effect. . . .
A poor little peasant, who left without anything . . . Chevalier
of the Legion of Honour !
He was very nice when speaking of his family. Under the
influence of emotion, the least good-natured amongst the
pupils were speaking of offering a bronze, a souvenir, and I
aon't know what.
Then came some more pupils, my aunt, Neuv^glise, &c.
He is delighted with our flowers, and with the bow. In fact,
this goes on until half-past five.
Joking aside, it gives our atelier quite a different stamp,
and as father Rodolphe is so happy as all that, it will make
him indulgent
Sunday, February 13th. — Here is a letter from mamma,
very affectionate —
" January 27, Kharkov, Grand Hotel
" My adored angel, my darling child Moussia, if you knew
how unhappy I am without you, especially as I am anxious
about your health ; and how I should like to leave as soon as
"You, my pride, my glory, my happiness, and my joy!
Could you but imagine the sufferings that I endure without
you ! Your letter written to Mme. Anitskoff is in my hands,
and, like a lover, I am always reading it over and over, and I
moisten it with my tears. 1 kiss your little hands and your
little feet, and I beg of God that I may be able to do it in
reality as soon as possible.
" I fondly embrace our dear aunt
" M. B."
Monday, February 14th. — The head in Brisbane's (Alice's)
portrait was painted ui two hours, and Julian tells niQ to
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458 MARIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
leave it as it is. And at other times it takes a week to do some
trumpery thing. A part of the bodice and of the apron are also
done. The professor of perspective comes and preaches to me
for twenty-five minutes upon the necessity of submitting myself
to his inrallible rules. But what of Tony ? . . . . and myself !
This man cannot be mistaken, as they are fixed rules ; but
Tony and myself ? I don't know. Let us not go too deep, so
as not to fatigue ourselves just when we want our minds to be
very free, so as to paint the masterpiece quietly.
But I vote for the mathematician.
Friday, February ISth. — Worries ! The drawings having*
been all jumbled up together, half of them remained
unjudged. Great emotion ! Julian gets up and begins
explaining I don't know what. I was thinkmg of some-
thing else, and, leaning against the door, yawned formidably,
which clearly meant, " An ! how all that bores me ! "... .
Julian, already exasperated, turns round and tells me that
if it does not amuse me, I have only to go home. I found no
reply, not having done it purposely, and not having had the
least wish to be impolite.
The illustrious artist has passed me by without correct-
ing my work for the last two days, and it puts me in a
very awkward position at the studio .... which worries me !
Saturday, February 19th. — Tony says I am getting on
very well; after having given me a good lesson, he goes
to correct A , to whom he says hardly anything, he is
very embarrassed ; he begs her to change some figures which
are not correct, I think
She gets quite red about it, and instead of talking with
him as usual, she sits in her place and works feverishly,
while that angel of a Tony comes back to my picture ; he
examines it, gives me some hints, encourages me, and
repeats several times that I am doing very well
I am so delighted that I forget Julian's coldness, which,
however, bothers me ... .
For about ten days I have been dreaming always of
grandpapa, of grandmamma, and of my family .... And
then 1 nearly always dream either of the people I am to
see on the morrow, or else I continue the day's work in
my dreams, and I never sleep without dreaming.
Tuesday, February 22nd. — I have made peace with Julian ;
I said to him : — " Monsieur Julian, what ! do you still bear
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PABIS, 1881. 459
me malice for a thing which I did not do on purpose ?
Won't you come and correct me?" And he came with a
dignified air, saying that as I admitted my fault, it was all
right ! I did not reply for I was not in the wrong ; but
I hate quarrels, and it put my picture into disorder.
Thursday, March 3rd. — I am very ill, I cough very
much, I breathe with difficulty, and there is an ominous
rattling in my throat .... I think it is called laryngeal
phthisis.
1 have opened the New Testament, which has been for-
fotten for some time, and twice, in the space of a few days,
have been struck by the appropriateness with which the line,
picked out at random, answered to my thoughts. I have
come back to praying to Christ and the Virgin, and to belief
in miracles, after having been a Deist, with days of absolute
atheism. But the religion of Christ, according to hin own
words, is very little like your Catholicism or our orthodoxy,*
which I abstain from following, limiting myself to following
the precepts of Christ, and not embarrassing myself with
the allegories taken in earnest, with the superstitions, and
the different absurdities introduced into religion later on
by mere men, for political or other motives.
Wednesday, March 16th. — Tony has come; he tinds
several things very good, others good ; on the whole it is
not bad. Alter all, I am not very well satisfied.
Bojidar, who has returned from Nice, will go with the
pictures and the porters.
Friday, March 18th. — I have completed the picture ail
but a few finishing touches.
Julian thinks it has gained enormously this last week,
and that it is good now.
Tony has not seen the alteration in the centre ; the
three principal figures, although in the middle distance,
have been repainted and changed, and others too, and
some hands.
I feel myself that it is better now; we shall see what
Tony says to-morrow. There are in all sixteen persons,
and the skeleton, which makes seventeen.
Saturday, March 19th. — Well, I am not pleased. Tony
thinks, as he did before, that there are several good
bits, but that the whole does not deserve compliments ;
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460 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
he explains to me at full length what I must do to it,
and gives a few strokes with the brush, which I afterwards
remove.
At half-past four Julian comes ; we stop work and talk.
I had commenced at a quarter to eight I was tired,
especially so at not having obtained any expressions of
" very good," from Tony.
Mon Dieu! I am well aware it is bright and spirited,
but there is an enormous lack of knowledge !
Julian cries out that he is furious at having given me
such an extraordinary subject for my first large picture.
Ah ! " if it were only your secona ! "
Ah yes! "Well tnen, Monsieur, let us reserve it for
next year."
He looked at me, his eyes glistening with hope at finding
me worthy and capable of giving up the vain satisfaction
of exhibiting an incomplete and mediocre thing. He
would be delighted if I would give it up, so should I ; but
what about the others, my friends ? It would be said
that what I have done has been judged by the professors
to be too bad, that I was not equal to a large picture, in
fact, that I have been refused at the Saloa
Query: Have I done all that I could excepting a few
little thmgs ? Yes, certainly ! but I have found myself
face to face with things entirely unknown, of which I had
no suspicion ; in any case I have learnt a great deal. Julian
thinks that I have made a great effort, that it is not
bad, that it is amusing; but that it is enough to make
one tear one's hair to think what it might have been.
Ah ! I wish the canvas might be torn, so as not to be
forced to exhibit it. For I am compelled to do so by a
silly vanity punished beforehand, because I am afraid of
the indifference of the public and the chaff of the men
down-stairs. It is not precisely chaff, but they will say: —
" Well, the strongest of your lames is not strong ! "
Oh dear! it might have been foreseen, Julian ought
to have foreseen it But he says that it is because I
have worked too much upon my canvas; that if I had
painted as I commenced, it would have been good ! And
there is the study of the model, a little fellow ten years
old. No, if I had done that as the week's study, I should
have scratched it all out ; it is bad, and, above all, the design
is commonplace, without character, and absolutely unworthy
of me ; it is the worst of pictures.
Ah ! it's vexing ; but what is to be done ?
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PARTS, 1881. 461
Sunday, March 20th. — At the Palais de Tlndustrie. It
was very amusing, the crowd were shouting and making
remarks on the unfortunate pictures as they arrived.
Bojidar had gone in, and I had some difficulty in making
myself known as the author ; at last I run through, elegant
and admired by my dear colleagues; we find ourselves
again with the everlasting Bojidar, and I manage to see
a few pictures.
Mine seems small enough, though it is four feet six
inches high by six feet wide. A group of men stood before
it. I fled, so as not to hear their remarks, for it seemed to
me that people knew it was mine.
I have spoken seriously to Julian, I have explained
my feelings to him. I do not wish him to think me capable
of silly vanity ; no, I do not say that out of bravado, and
I shall have no heart-breaking ; do not mistake me for
one of the nervous women, please don't ! In fact he
understands very well, and so do L He says I shall be
honourably received and that I shall even have some
success, but not the success I had dreamed of. The men
from down-stairs will not come and stand rooted in front
of the picture : What, is it a woman who has done this ?
At last I suggested having an accident with it to save
my vanity, but he will not consent. He had expected a
success ; he admits that his pride is not quite satisfied,
but that it can go. And under these conditions I ex-
hibit !
Alas, yes ! I know he encourages me, because he does
not believe in my sensible resolutions. In spite of my
declarations, he thinks me a woman, and thinks that he
would hurt me if he told me the simple truth.
Nevertheless, I have told him all ! . . . That is that
I am a serious pupil, and need not exhibit to get lessons.
I exhibit out of vanity. So if it is bad, it does not
matter. But it is over ! I am rid of the picture — but the
anxiety till the 1st of May, inclusive? ... If I only
have a good number!
Oh ! I am going to paint torsos, and make sketches !
You shall see.
Thursday, March 2Uh. — I discover a pot of tar under my
bed. This is an attention on Rosalie's part for my health,
from the advice of a fortune-teller !
My family considers this mark of devotion admirable
on the part of a servant. Mamma was quite touched. I
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462 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
pour a pail of water on the carpet, under the bed : I
break a pane of glass, and sleep in my work-room — all
out of anger. It is the same as that bore about airing
my clothes !
My family imagine that I have some deep desim in get-
ting myself frozen. It vexes me to such a pitch that often
I do not wrap up, so as to give them a proof that their
persistence is useless. Qh, these people make me burst with
rage ! . . .
Tuesday, March 29th. — I hear at the studio that Breslau
is already accepted, and I have no news of my picture.
I workea until twelve, and then we did some shopping,
which seemed to me atrociously long.
I have exhausted all the tacit arguments in the world,
and I have only gained a fever and a headache — though
I appear calm, it is true.
But that stupid Rosalie having been to ask the ladies
for some money to send off the telegram in which I ex-
press my anxieties to Tony, they read the message. This
is dreadful. I can neither appear at the school nor stay
here. Oh, my family ! . . . I do not wish you my
sufferings, no matter who you may be.
Wednesday, March 30th. — I pretended to sleep until ten
o'clock, so as not to go to the studio, and I am very
miserable.
Here is Julian's reply. It calms me a little. . . Only
think. No, you cannot imagine what it would be to me
if the picture were refused. It would no longer be . . .
In fact, / covM only grumble at myself! And I don't
know which is worse — to be the cause of one's own misfor-
tunes, or to suffer because of others. . . . Ah! it would
be like a shot right in your chest I don't know what I
should do. . . . But I must hope. . . .
Friday, April 1st — April fools apart, I am queen. Julian
came himself to tell me so yesteraay after midnight, after
leaving Lefebvre's. We had some punch at the studio.
Bojidar, without my asking him, went to get information
from Tidi&re (a young man from down-stairs), and assures
me that I have No. 2. This seems too good to be
true.
Sunday, April 3rd. — Never did Patti sing with more
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PARIS, 1881. 463
spirit than she did yesterday; her voice had such fulness,
such freshness, and such brilliancy! The bolero from the
Vdpres Siciliennes was encored.
Ah ! what a lovely voice I had once. It was powerful,
dramatic, fascinating ; it sent a shiver down your back. * And
now, nothing left, not enough to speak of.
Shall I not get better ? I am young, I might perhaps. . . .
Patti does not move you, but she can make you weep with
astonishment; it is really like fireworks. Yesterday I was
positively startled when sne poured forth a flood of notes, they
were su pure, so high, and so delicate ! . . .
Tuesday, April 5th. — A surprise ! My father has arrived.
I was sent for at the studio, and I find him in the dining-room
with mamma, who is lavishing a thousand loving attentions
upon him, also Dina and Saint-Amand, who are delighted
with the sight of this conjugal happiness.
We go out together, Monsieur, Madame, and b£b£. We go
to the shops for Monsieur, then to the Bois, and then for an
instant to see the Karageorgevitches.
He has no doubt come to take mamma away, but I don't
know anything yet, we are too excited.
Wednesday, Ajyril 6th. — I am kept back until nine o'clock
by the pater, who insists that I shall not go to my work ; but
my torso interests me too much, and I only see the august
family again at dinner, after which they go to the theatre, and
I remain alone.
My father does not understand at all how one can
be an artist, or how it can bring you fame. I sometimes
think that he only affects to have such notions.
Saturday, April 23rd. — I took the portrait of B to
Tony ; he at first thinks it very well arranged, and then after
a few hints he says that it is astonishingly good for one
who has studied so little as I have.
" Yes, it is wonderfully good, and if you so on working
like . . . ." But I interrupt him by saying tnat I mean to
work more ; as much as I am able to, and more.
I am enchanted, it is wonderfully good ! Capital ! I am
not then making merely estimable progress. Ah ! I breathe
again! I had already classed myself amongst the dis-
tinguished pupils. Ah ! nom d'un chien, what luck !
The portrait is handsome. B is dressed in a white
cambric dress, open and gathered, with short puff sleeves, a
F F
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464 MARIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
pink ribbon round her waist, under the breast, a straw-
coloured shawl round her, and covering her arms ; in her left
hand she is listlessly holding a rose. . . . The head is full
face, quite straight, half faint shadow, and half light Back-
ground neutral, greyish green, warm, and transparent Do
not imagine that I attribute any talent to myself ; not yet ;
but the arrangement is pretty, the woman is beautiful, and it
is wonderfully good for a person who has not been working
long.
Sunday, May 1st. — Alexis comes early ; he has a ticket
for two, so that, together with mine, four of us can go —
Monsieur, Madame, Alexis, and myself I am not very well
satisfied with my appearance : a costume of grey woollen stuff,
very dark, with a black hat, elegant, but rather commonplace.
We immediately find my work, which is in the first room
on the left of the room of honour, on the second row. I am
delighted with the place, and very much astonished that the
picture looks so well as it does. It is not good, but I expected
it to look horrible, and it looks pretty.
But, by mistake, my name has been omitted from the
catalogue (I spoke of it, and it is to be rectified). One
cannot see properly on the first day, as one hurries to see
everything at once. Alexis and myself fall away a little from
my parents to make our way to the right and to the left, and
finally we auite lose them, and I take his arm for a little
while ; in snort, I free myself from them, and come and go
fearlessly. A number of acquaintances, heaps of compliments,
which do not seem forced. It's quite natural ; these people
who do not know much about it, only see a good-sized picture
with many figures in it, which makes a very respectable
appearance.
A week ago I gave a thousand francs to the poor.
Nobody knows of it, I went to the large office and escaped
again rapidly without waiting for thanks ; the administrator
must have thought that I nad stolen it to give it away.
Heaven is rewarding me for my money.
Abbema, who is walking with Bojidar, sends me a message
to say that my picture pleases him, that it looks like a man's
work, is interesting, &c. A few minutes afterwards we meet,
and make the acquaintance of the celebrated friend of Sarah
Bernhardt
She is a very nice girl, and I appreciate her praise,
especially as Bojidar informs me that she has just fallen
out with B , whom she told that he was going back,
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PARIS, 1881. 465
and that she did not like the pictures he had sent this year.
We breakfasted there ; and stayed altogether for six hours
amidst the arts. I will not tell you anything about the
pictures ; I only want to say that I think very highly of
Breslau's picture ; great qualities, but indifferent arawing and
stupid loading of colour. Fingers like birds' claws, noses with
clefts in them, nails, and harshnesses, and then extravagant
daubing on of the paint ; in fact, it savours of impressionism,
and is an imitation of Bastien-Lepage.
Where did you ever see sucn smudgings and such
loadings in nature ?
But never mind, there is good in it, and people are looking
at these three heads placed between the portrait of Wolff
and the beggar, by Bastien-Lepage.
Friday, May 6th. — I spent this morning at the Salon,
where I met Julian ; he introduced Lefebvre to me, who told
me that there were many qualities in my picture. I am a
very little girL
At home nothing but conversations about the changes
which are to take place. They all bother me! My father
has ideas which are sometimes absurd ; he does not believe in
them, but he sticks to them, as he does to saying that all
depends on my consenting to spend the summer in Kussia.
" It will be seen that you are not outside your family
circle," he said.
Have I ever been so! This trick of making me responsible
is repulsive. And now my cup is filled up ; I cannot speak a
worn about it without bursting into tears. They will do
nothing, or cannot ! Well, I will wait and see ! But at least I
will not travel ; I will remain quietly (?) at home and I can
fret in my chair, where I am physically comfortable.
Oh, lassitude ! Oh, misery ! Ougnt I to feel this at my
age ? Is it not enough to cripple a character ? And this is
wnat saddens me ; if ever I get any joy, or a happier
existence, shall I be able to enjoy it? shall I be able to
take advantage of what may present itself? I think I
no longer see as others do, and that . . . but that is enough
of it. . . . And at night, quite tired and half asleep, divine
harmonies pass through my head — the music comes and goes,
you follow it like an orchestra, the melody of which develops
in you and in spite of you.
Saturday, May 7th. — My father wants to leave to-morrow,
and mamma must go. That upsets everything. And I, shall
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46<3 MARIE BA8HKIBT8EFF.
I go ? Why remain ? I can work there in the open air, and
we will return for Biarritz.
Some say that Ems would be good for me Ah !
everything is a matter of indifference. There is nothing for me.
Sunday, May 8th. — Now I am almost glad to see my
health giving way for want of the joys which Heaven denies
me.
And when I am totally done up, perhaps everything will
change, and then it will be too late.
Each one for himself, certainly ; but yet my family
pretend to love me so much, and tney do nothing. .... I
am no longer anything myself, there is a veil between me and
the rest of the world. If w6 knew what is to come hereafter
but we do not ! This curiosity will render death less frightful
to me.
Jf I exclaim ten times a day that I want to die, but this is
a form of despair. We think, " I want to die," but it is not
true, it is but a way of saying that life is horrible ; we
still want to live all the same, especially at my age. But do
not be distressed, I shall last for som time yet No one
can be blamed. It is God who wishes it
Sunday, May 15th. — However, in a word, I am going to
Russia, if they will wait a week for me. It would be dreadful
to me to have to be present at the distribution of prizes.
That is a very great sorrow which none know about excepting
Julian. So I am going. I went incognito to consult a great
doctor, C — : — . My ears will get better ; the coating ot the
right lung is diseased, and has been so for a long time, there's
pleurisy, the throat is all wrong. I asked him all this in
terms which forced him to tell me the truth, after having
well examined the case.
I must go to AUevard, and follow a course of treatment
All right, I will go on my way back from Russia, and from
there to Biarritz. I will work in the country, in the open air
— that does one good. I write all this with rage in my heart.
But here at home the situation is heartrending. On the
one hand, mamma is distressed at going, and I am over-
whelmed by the thought of staying with my aunt — a stupid
superstition.
And on the other hand my aunt who has but us, but
myself in the world, and who says nothing, but who is cut to
the heart to see that I am suffering at the thought of
remaining with her.
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PARIS, 1881. 467
^rMy strength is all gone. I sit all day with my
teeth set, to keep me from crying, a choking sensation in
my throat, and a buzzing in my ears, and a strange sen-
sation as if my bones were coming through the flesh, which
is leaving me.vAnd that poor aunt who would like to see
me pleased ana hear me speak, and to have me with her !
I tell you that I have no strength left, that I believe in
nothing and I think anything possible. I don't care whether
we go or stay, but I think they will not stay so long with
me. But I don't know. It is Breslau's honourable mention
or medal which drives me away. Ah! I am unlucky in
everything! I shall have to die miserable, I who believed
and prayed so inuch. . . . At' last, after the most trying
uncertainties possible in the world, the departure is fixed
for Saturday.
Monday, May 16th. — I went to see Julian, and we talked
long and seriously. He says I am very foolish to go to
Russia. "The doctors are advising you to go South, and
you are going North." He said such wise and sensible
things to me that I am more than shaken. And in order
that I should not think that he is speaking from self-
interest he advises me to leave Paris and go into the
country, and work in a warm place where I shall be wrapped
in air and sunshine all day long. So I must paint a large
landscape with figures, in the summer, and during the winter
I will do a studio picture ; that will give me two very different
works to send in.
And I am not to follow in anybody's footsteps, neither in
Bastien's, nor anybody else's (that's one for you, Breslau). I
am one of those who must remain true to themselves. In
short, he thinks well of me, and always gives excellent advice,
good and encouraging words. And he is very severe, notwith-
standing ; and I am obedient. I speak to him almost without
reserve, and I think he is flattered oy it.
But in order to do good painting it is necessary to take
care of one's self ! I know that ! This man openly advises
me not to go to Russia though it is the wish of my family.
" Your family will regret it later on." He said this to mamma
at the risk of offending her, when she called for me. And
indeed, if it were to hurt me ! Ah ! I am not happy . . .
but I will take care of mvself ; I will go away to Allevard,
and stay there five weeks, that will bring me to July.
Then I will spend a month in the forest of Fontainebleau . . .
No ! stay in raris in June, until the 15th ; start on the 15th
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468 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
for Allevard until the 20th of July, then a month at
Fontainebleau with frequent visits to Paris to show my
studies ; about the 20th of August I must come back and
get my clothes ready for Biarritz, the 1st of September;
after a month at Biarritz come back here and work, taking
due care of myself And let Russia go to the devil !
Friday, May 20th. — In a word, I have begun to hesitate
again ! Oh dear ! Potain comes, and I reckoned on him
for not going to Russia and for not vexing my father too
much. It is all right, I am not to go.
But Bojidar is the one who gives me the mortal blow :
" The jury went round the Salon to-day, and looked long at
Breslau's picture ! " Oh dear ! the tears which had alreadv
flowed, begin again in torrents. My father and mother think
that it is what Potain said that causes my grief, and I
cannot admit the truth, but I am weeping in earnest ; no
grimaces or sobs, but real big silent tears in profusion,
which fall like summer rain without much disfiguring the
face.
Potain did not say anything particularly new, and he
enabled me to remain here ; but it is Breslau's picture !
It is dreadful. What shall I tell you? One day! . . .
I begged of Potain to exaggerate my state of health, and
simply to tell my family that the rignt lung is diseased, so
that my father will not oe too vexed at my remaining behind.
And here they are both quite distressed, walking on tip-
toe. . . . Ah ! misery ; their consideration wounds me, their
concessions exasperate me .... and no support anywhere !
What shall I hold on to ? Ah ! painting is a tine farce ! You
know how, in times of trouble, we are never quite miserable
when we have a bright spot of any sort on our horizon. I
used to answer myself, saying, " Wait a while, painting will
save us." Now I aoubt everything, I believe neither in Tony
nor in Julian. Is it by dint of crying that I expect to paint ! ! !
Monday, May 23rd. — At last everything is packed, and
here we are at the station. Then, at the moment of starting,
mv hesitation affects the others ; I begin to cry, and mamma
follows suit with Dina and my aunt ; and my father comes and
asks what's to be done ? I reply by my tears. The bell rings,
we run to the carriage, where they had not taken a ticket tor
me, and they get into an ordinary compartment (which I
would not do). I want to get in too, but the door is closed ;
I have no ticket, and we part without even saying adieu.
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BERLIN, 1881. 469
Ah ! we grumble, and hate each other, but when the
parting comes, we forget all that. On the one side mamma
on the other my aunt, and my father in the middle. He
must be furious, for, on the whole, he has been very kind.
But this useless journey, this loss of time ; and then, I don't
know anything more. I cried at the idea of going, and I am
crying at remaining behind. I scarcely care about Breslau
now, but altogether .... I don't know anything more about
it. I really think that I can nurse myself better here, and
that I shall not lose time.
Tuesday, May 24>th. — I am much distressed at not having
gone.
I have gratuitously offended my father by remaining here.
My summer will be, nevertheless, cut up in pieces, as I must
go to the baths at the end of June. Instead of spending
three weeks here to see Breslau get the medal, and remaining
shut up, sad and languid, in this Paris, where it is suffocating,
I should have been in the country. I really must escape from
this unbearable position. Indeed, I am an idiot. O
cries, and begs of me to stay, thinking that this journey would
be fatal to me, and that the terrible M. Bashkirtsen would
keep me over there. What nonsense! And I am softened
enough, am sufficiently anything you like to allow myself to
be influenced !
I am going to telegraph to Berlin for them to wait for me
and I will start
Berlin, Wednesday, May 25th. — So I started yesterday
my aunt, seeing me miserable at remaining in Paris, does not
cry, fearing that I will reproach her with influencing me by
her emotion. But she is sad unto death, and thinks she will
never see me any more. The poor woman, who adores
mamma, adores me doubly for her sake, and I am as dis-
agreeable as possible to her. I even wonder how it is possible
to make such a bad return for such noble devotion. She has
been accustomed by grandmamma since I was born, to con-
sider me as the ideal of the whole world. Now, it matters
not what I do, she lavishes nothing but care and kindness
upon me. I need not even ask for anything, she watches my
fancies all the more because she knows that I am very
unhappy and ill. She can do nothing .... except not to
allow my material life to be uncomfortable.
My health is undermined, and my poor family, exagge-
rating everything, think me as good as lost.
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470 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
But I have always had the consolation of seeing the most
beautiful fruit, the first vegetables of the season on the table,
with my favourite dishes, each time that I have any visible
grief. These attentions may seem foolish, but there is some-
thing touching in them. Yet I cannot appear gentle ; poor
aunt has noticed, without my whispering a word about it,
that I avoid as much as possible every human face ; so
having seen that the supper was prepared she ran away
leaving me alone with a book. Wnen there are three or
four members of my family I can stand them, and talk
with them ; but one alone is an intimacy which embarrasses
me, and I sit sulking, while I reproach myself with my
want of affection to a woman so devoted and so virtuous !
For we are very virtuous people, uiy poor aunt is an angel
in that respect
So I am off
I went to see Tony, who is very ill, and for whom I
left a letter of thanks, and to see Julian, who was out
He might, perhaps, have made me change my mind, and
remain here, and I wanted a change .... For a week none
of the family liked to look at each other for fear of burst-
ing into tears; and, left alone, I cried all the time, while
I also felt all the time how cruel it was to my aunt
.... But still she must have seen also that I cried at the
thought of leaving her. She fancies I do not like her at
all, and when I think of this heroic creature's entire life
of sacrifice, I burst into tears : she has not even the consola-
tion of being loved like a good aunt . . . . ! and yet I don't
love any one more ....
At last I am at Berlin, my family and Gabriel are
at the station; we dine together. But the crowning
horror of all is the state of my ears .... I have
been struck there in a frightful manner. . . . With a
nature like mine, it is the most cruel thing which could
have happened. ... So that I dread all that I wished
for, and it is an awful state of things. Now that I have
more experience, that I am beginning perhaps to have
talent, and that I am better able to do things .... I feel
that the world would be mine if I could hear as I used
to. And with my ailment this scarcely happens once in
a thousand cases, so say all the doctors whom I have con-
sulted. " Be reassured, you will not become deaf through
your larynx, that very rarely happens!" And it is just
my case .... You cannot imagine all the dissimulation
and continual tension which is necessary to endeavour to
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RUSSIA, 1881. 471
hide this odious infirmity. I manage it with those who
have known me before, ana who see me seldom, but at the
studio, for instance, it is known !
And the amount of intelligence which it robs you of!
how can one be bright or witty!
Ah ! All is over.
Faskorr (after Kieff), Thursday, May 26th. — I was in need
of this long journey ; plains, plains, plains everywhere. It
is very beautiful, I am fond of the steppes .... as a
novelty .... it looks almost infinite .... when there are
forests or villages it is no longer the same. Most
charming is the obliging, amiable look of all the employes,
even to the loafers, as soon as you get into Russia ; the
Custom House people talk as it they knew you. But I
have had already eighty-six hours in the train, and I
have thirty more to spend in it. These distances are
stupefying.
Qavronzy, Sunday, May 29th. — Yesterday, in the night,
we arrived at Poltava. I was counting very much on the
joys of our welcome, a good hot supper, &c.
Paul and Alexander came alone to meet us, and had
not even taken rooms for us at the hotel, thinking that
we would go straight to the country. Horrible!
Paul has become awfully fat. * This morning came
Kapitanenko, Wolkovisky, &c, also a stranger, Linopay —
fairly good-looking and gentlemanly. My father is very
happy, but rather confused at seeing what a depressing
effect this country has upon me after five years' absence.
I do not try to hide it, and knowing my father I do not
flatter him.
It is cold, there is abominable mud, and Jews . . .
and it is all in a state of siege — sinister rumours are
afloat. Poor country!
We have reached the country house. . . The fields
are still flooded by the river — pools of water everywhere,
mud, fresh verdure, lilacs in bloom ; but it is in a valley — 1
have an idea that it will be damp. A nice way of nursing
oneself! It is mortally dull. I open the piano ana
improvise something funereal. Coco howls plaintively. I
feel ready to cry, and form the project of leaving again
to-morrow. . .
Soup, smelling of onion, is served — I leave the dining-
room. This astonishes the Princess and Paul's wife a little.
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472 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Paul's wife is fairly good-looking ; superb black hair, a
beautiful complexion, not a bad tigure, and a good little
wife. I try to oe like everybody else, but I can't manage it.
The unpacking of the boxes is more exciting. But I do
not follow what is being said — and for a reason. I must
nurse myself ! How can I in this damp place ? Ah, how
right Julian was!
Mamma has brought all the papers which mention me :
and with my . . . Paris vexations they make me a
halo here.
Wednesday, June 1st. — Mme. Gorpintchenko has arrived.
Michel has eone again.
The weather is tine, the lilacs are in bloom, the spring is
exquisite, but too cold for my unfortunate carcase. I have
not brought any canvases — there are none of the sort
I want
Saturday, June Uh. — Julian writes that Tony R F. has
an attack of inflammation, through coming from his
mother's in an open carriage, and finds himself all of a
sudden between life and death. He weeps, knowing that it
is all up with him. Is it not horrible ? without mention-
ing the father, who is eighty-tive years, and the mother
whom poor Tony was so afraid of losing.
Sunday, June 5th. — I telegraphed yesterday to Julian
for news of Tony, for I am anxious.
I am out of doors all the day doing some studies.
The weather is very tine. I cannot believe that this man,
still so young, may die . . . but he has changed very
much during the last six months.
Monday, June 6th (May 25th). — Tony is saved ! I
am delighted at it. Rosalie bursts into tears, saying that if
he had died, it would have made me ill. That is a little
exaggerated — but she is a good girl. With the telegram
arrives a letter from Julian bringing the good news.
This is what Zola says of Jules vallfes ....
" Imagine a sensitiveness hidden like something ridiculous,
a brutality often intentional, and, above all, a passion for
life, for the busy hum of men, and you have his whole
nature . . . lively too, ' chaffinff ' readily, rather in a
hurry perhaps for fear of being nimself chaffed, hiding
his tears under a bitter irony." I think this is like
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RUSSIA, 1881. 473
me. But we look so stupid when we appraise ourselves like
that
Monday, June 13th (1st). — I have commenced a peasant
girl, life-size, standing, leaning on a palisade formed of dry
branches like basket work . . .
Some planks and straw have been put on the floor
to protect me from the damp, and a little movable
Favnion has been placed there; it has two rooms, so that
am very comfortable. Mamma, Paul, Nini, Papa, Michel,
Dina, and Sp&randio, spend a portion of the day there.
Monday, June 27 th (15th). — I have been working
since . . ; to-day is the thirteenth day, for the rain
has made me lose many days. It is nearly finished. I
mean to paint the head a third time if I have time. Paul
and his wife have gone to visit an estate of mamma's,
and Monsieur and Madame are at Poltava. There are four
of us at home — the Princess, Dina, Sp^randio, and my-
self. The rain has forced us at least ten times to take
shelter in the pavilion (a real gipsy's cart), and now that
we have come in-doors it is fine; I lose an hour. The
day before yesterday I wanted to cut my canvas in pieces;
since yesterday I have had a working fit.
I have made the sketch for one of my Salon pictures.
The subject fascinates me, and I burn with impatience to
do it
Wedv&fday, July 6th (June 24th). — I have finished my
picture, and it is better than anything I have yet done,
especially the head, which I painted three times. But
not having drawn it with enougn care I find that the arm
is a little too short, and that there is some awkwardness
in the attitude. And these faults are not permissible in
my case, as I possess the qualities required for avoiding them.
I should have left it several times, for after all it would
have been as well to do several studies as to finish this
with the arm too short. I was all the time in hopes that
my father would buy it, as he had not given me any
present, and I having come here. . . . ; but it does not
seem to take.
There is a fair in the village, we go to it, and amuse
ourselves by throwing all the sweets we can find to the
crowd; it is like the confetti at the Carnival All those
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474 MARIE BASHKIRT8EFF.
hands stretched out simultaneously produce an excellent
effect, all those people casting themselves on the ground
at once have the look of a human wave.
A crowd is a fine sight !
Thursday, July 7th. — Nini, her sister, and Dina, came
with me to my room, and we talked of unlucky things,
d propos of broken mirrors. As to three candles, I have
had. them two or three times here. Am I going to die ?
There* are moments when this idea turns me cold. But
when I believe in God I feel less afraid, though. . . I
wish to live. Or perhaps I shall become blind, that would
be the same thing for I should kill myself, . . But what
is to be found hereafter ? What matter ? But still we
escape the pains we know. Or perhaps I shall become quite
deaf? I torce myself to write this word, which scorches
my pen. . . My God, but I can't even pray as formerly.
If it is the death of a relation. . . of my father!. . .
But if it is mamma ? I shall never forgive myself for
having said one disagreeable word to her.
Wnat injures me with God is no doubt that I keep
account of the slightest movements of my soul, and cannot
keep myself from thinking that such and such a thought may
be imputed to me as wrong, and such and such another as
good ; moreover, as soon as I know that it is good, there is no
more merit in it, it is all lost If I have any generous, or
kind, or Christian impulse, I notice it directly ; consequently,
in spite of myself, I feel satisfaction in thinking what this
ought, in mv opinion, to bring me in return. . . . And under
those considerations all merit vanishes.
For instance, just now I had an impulse to go down and
throw myself into mamma's arms and humiliate myself ; and
of course the thought which followed this was about the
advantage to myself, and all was lost. Then I felt that it
would not cost me much to act in this way, and that in spite
of myself I should do it a little cavalierly, or in a childish
way ; for a genuine, serious, and impulsive movement is im-
possible between us. I have never been known as anything
except a joker, and it would not seem natural, they would
t hink I was acting a comedy.
Saturday, July 9th. — We are all off on the pilgrimage, and
then we go to Krementchoug, where we shall go boating on
the Dnieper. I am playing at being an infidel, or nearly one,
and drive them to this excursion. t
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RUSSIA, 1881. 475
After a thousand indecisions, we make up our minds.
You cannot imagine what a business it is — and why do
it ? Perhaps we had better not go, for after all, how
shall we get on ? Shall we find anything to eat, or a
place to sleep in? Well, there is a village, we must take
Vassil to cook It is terrible ; there is a mountain near
Gavronzy which one cannot avoid scaling, so they ought
to be used to it; but no, each time it is as though a
new and terrible obstacle had just arisen. At last, after
each person in turn had said that he will stop behind,
or that such and such another has said he will not go on,
we start in three carriages: Monsieur and Madame, Dina,
Catherine the Swiss, Nmi's sister, and Sp£randio ; Nini,
myself, Paul, and Micha. About half way there, Paul and
Micha sing heartily, to the astonishment of the peaasnts on
the road. We find the three brothers Babanine — fitienne,
Alexander, and Wladimir — together at the hotel, drinking
champagne.
Alexander talks of love matters, of relations, of remem-
brances of youth ; in short, he is as open as a carriage entrance
when it is open. ... So I at once guess that there is some-
thing, and indeed he has just bought his part of the
inheritance from Etienne, who has run through it as well as
the others. So there is only Nicholas left; out* he will do
the same, in spite of what he says. And t hen Alexander will
have all his father's lands. This man has such a power of
will that he goes straight to his aim and attains it He is a
?ower. I bow ; I almost respect him. He has quarrelled with
aul, and will gobble him up, but I mean to reconcile them.
As we have no business in common, our intercourse is
quite friendly, and I took his arm this evening in the public
gardens. But it seems that we have the most chic and up-
roarious day that could be dreamt of in Poltava, and that it
will be talked about So I will relate it to you. We dine at the
above-mentioned garden, a table set for fifteen people occupy-
ing the whole of the right side on the terrace, and where the
public is not allowed to annoy us. They are crowding together
at the least respectful distance possible to see us eat, and to
listen to the band which is playing for us, and the choir of
women which we had sent for. Gipsy songs, badly sung
by Russians and Swedes. I should have liked to ring the
alarm bell, for the people did not arrive quickly enough. It
was full at about eight o'clock.
Monday, July llth. — Tt is Saint Paul's day. The military
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476 MARIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
band from Gavronzy has been sent for to play during dinner,
and in the evening on the balcony. In bringing over the soldiers
and instruments one of the drivers got his leg broken, and we
at once gave him the day's winnings, which amounted to fifty
roubles. The idea was mine. Not many people: Lihopay,
fetienne, and the proprietor of the hotel at wnich we alight at
Poltava. The gentlemen play cards with him and admit him
into their society. He married a young lady of noble birth ;
but the society of this innkeeper ! . . . . well ! With the
family we number fourteen. I am dressed exquisitely. Dina
also looks charming. For a while I talk and laugh with
Lihopay and Micha, as though it amused me. Others were
listening to hear what amusing things we were saying. We
dance. Papa and mamma opposite Paul and his wife, Micha
and myself opposite the Swiss girl and Etienne, Sp^randio,
and Catherine. The room is vast, and with the help of the
music our feet become lively. Dina is like a mad girl,
dancing all sorts of fancy steps quite alone, and really very
gracefully. I also, notwithstanding my wretched trouble (my
ears), which is turning my hair white, danced for an instant
without gaiety but without pretension either.
Wednesday, July 13th. — Always sad — perhaps about
going ; we arrive at Poltava at about seven o'clock. I travel
with Dina and we talk a little of this visit as a whole. ....
However incredible it may seem, there is here neither
delicacy nor morals nor modesty in the true sense of the
word.
In the small towns of France there is the fear of the
confessor, of a grandmother, or of an old aunt whom one
respects very muck .... Here, nothing. People often
marry for love, and think nothing of elopement — and all this
in cold blood. I think we leave to-morrow. I will stop at
Kieffto have some masses said. I am tormented by the
darkest presentiments, and I am so frightened at all these
omens! On Paul's birthday I found a taper at my place
forgotten there, it seems, by the man who lighted the lustres.
And all those broken looking-glasses! So I ask myself if
some evil is about to happen.
Friday, July 15th. — We are at Kharkoff. On the plat-
foYm we find Micha and Lihopay ; they started from Poltava
before we did.
I cough and choke. I have just been looking at myself in
the glass, expecting to see an appearance of disease ; but no,
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RUSSIA, 1881. 477
nothing as yet. I am slim, but far from thin ; and my bare
shoulders have a fulness which does not agree with the
cough and the noises I hear in my throat, nor with those in
my ears that I no longer hear so loudly The fact is
that' I have a cold, that is why I cough more After
all ... . We went with mamma into a convent, and mamma
knelt down with fervour before the painted image of the
Virgin. How can one pray before an image ? I firmly
intended to do so, but I could not. But when 1 am at home,
when the impulse comes, then I feel better afterwards, I
swear to you, and I believe that God can cure me ; and He
alone. But before doing that He would have so many little
things to forgive I
Saturday, July 16th. — This morning the fat Pacha
arrived — my old lover ; some wish to stay for a day, the others
that we should all go on as far as Soumy, where we are at
present The Pacha has got stouter, but he is still the same
untamed creature, but not in the least terrifying. A prosaic
dreamer with a rough exterior, and all this with a cold and
very Philistine manner all the while. We only see one
another at the station, where we meet Alexander just coming
from Poltava, he has promised to go to Soumy on business ; in
fact, here we are — papa, mamma, Dina, Alexander, and myself,
the others remained behind; we parted, of course, with
regrets, good wishes, and kisses.
Thursday, July 21st, — Here we are at Kieff, the holy
town, " the mother of all the Russian towns," according to
Saint Wladimir, who, having been baptised, afterwards
baptised his people with or against their will, by making
them get into the Dnieper; some of them must have been
drowned, I think. But the idiots mourned for their idols,
which were drowned when the men were baptised. There
is still so much ignorance about Russia, where so much
beauty and so much wealth remain unknown, that I may
be telling you something new when I say that the Dnieper
is one of tne beautiful rivers of the world, and that its banks
are exquisitely picturesque. Kieff is built irregularly, pell-
mell, anyhow ; there is the lower town and the upper town, with
very steep streets. It is not comfortable, for the distances
are enormous; but it is interesting. Nothing is left of the
old town, for our civilisation at that period was satisfied with
sorry churches, built without art or solidity ; in consequence of
which there are few or no monuments. If I were inclined to
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478 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
exaggerate, I might say that there are as many churches as
houses. The cathedrals and convents are in considerable
numbers, and, indeed, there are as many as three or four in
a row, all with many gilt cupolas; the walls and pillars
whitewashed or painted white, with cornices and green roofs.
Often the whole front is painted with scenes from the lives of
saints and images, but all perfectly simple.
We go first to the Laura, a convent to which the pilgrims
come in thousands every day from all parts of Russia. The
iconostasis or partition which separates the altar from the
church, is covered with images, painted and covered with silver.
The shrines and the doors, completely overlaid with silver,
must represent pretty large sums, as well as the coffins of the
saints, also covered with chased silver, with the candlesticks,
the lustres, and all the rest of it, all silver. It is asserted that
these monks possess bags full of precious stones.
Anyhow, they are known to be as rich as the Rothschilds.
Peter the Great and Nicholas borrowed from them ten
millions of roubles, which they never returned ; and it serves
them right. Your monks at least give to the poor, but ours
here never give anything to anybody. And you cannot imagine
what a quantity of money the pilgrims bring, even supposing
that each pilgrim only gives a sou a day. And the masses
which are ordered to be said, and the candles, of which a
prodigious quantity is consumed.
And the images and the consecrated medals which are
sold !
The great curiosities are the catacombs, very narrow and
low subterranean places, damp and dark, of course. Each
person goes in with a lighted taper. A monk leads the way,
and quickly shows you the open coffins containing the bodies
of the saints, bodies which nave not decayed, but that are
desiccated, and this they call the miracle.
Mamma prayed with unequalled fervour ; I am c^uite sure
that papa and Dina both prayed for me. But the miracle has
not been accomplished, Y ou laugh ! Well, would you believe
it, I almost trusted to it. I attach no importance to the
churches, to the relics, to the masses ; no, but I counted on the
prayers, on my own prayer. I still hope to-day ; I am not heard,
but perhaps some day I may be. I oelieve only in God ; but
does God exist, the God who listens and thinks of things
like these ?
God will not cure me all of a sudden, in a church. No, I
have not deserved such a thing as this, but he will have pity
on me, and inspire some doctor, who will do me good. . . .
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PARIS, 1881. 479
Or, perhaps, in time .... but I will not cease to pray to
Hiin.
Mamma believes in consecrated images, in relics. ... In
fact, she has a pagan religion .... like most pious and ....
not very superior people. . . .
Perhaps the miracle might have been wrought if I had
believed in the power of the images and relics ! But there,
really, kneeling and praying, it was no good ; I can much
better understand kneeling down anywhere, and praying to
God simply. God is everywhere !
But, now believe?. ... It even seems to me that this
fetishism lowers God, and is a wrong towards Him. And to
many people, to the majority of the pilgrims, God is auite
effaced ; it is nothing but a piece of dried flesh wnich
possesses the power of working a miracle, or a wooden
image which is to be invoked, and which hears you. . . .
Am I wrong ? Are they right ? The most enlightened must
be in the right . . . My own God must at least be opposed
to .... aU these masses which are said to be necessary to
real faith. . . .
Paris, Tuesday t July 26£&. — Here I am at last ! It is life
to be here. Amidst other calls, I looked in at the studio ; I
was received with acclamations and kisses. As I am very
fond of the atelier, and particularly anxious to have Julian's
friendship and help, I was afraid that he might receive me
coldly, as I had broken a looking-glass, &c. Well, no ; it's not
from this side the trouble will come. Tony is welL
Wednesday, July 27th. — I went to Julian with the subject
for a picture, which does not fascinate him ; beyond this, he
did nothing but talk of my health for two hours, without
keeping back anything.
It seems that it is serious ; it must be true, for two months
of treatment have made no improvement. I know myself that
it is serious, that I am ill, and that I am growing tmn, while
not believing such dreadftil things. Breslau has received her
honourable mention. She has some orders. Mme. , who
protects her, and at whose house sne made the acquaintance
of the principal artists, has ordered her portrait for the next
Salon. She has already sold three or four things ; in fact, she
is launched. And I ? I am in a consumption. Julian tries
to frighten me in order to make me take care of myself. I
should take care of myself if I had any hope. It is dismal at
my age ! Julian is quite right ; in a year from this time I
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480 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
shall see how changed I am — that is to say, I shall be no
more. I went to see Colignon to-day. She will die soon ;
how changed she is ! Rosalie had warned me, but I was
startled — aeath itsel£ And in the room a smell of very
strong beef-tea which is given to sick people. It is horrible !
I have still got that smell in my nostrils. Poor Colignon !
I took her some soft white silk for a dress and a kerchief
I was so fond of it that I hesitated for five months, and
decided on making this immense sacrifice by meanly thinking
that Heaven would repay it These calculations take away
all merit.
Can you think of me as weak, thin, pale, dying, dead ?
Is it not too horrible that it should be thus ? But, at
least, by dying young you inspire pity in all the world.
I am touched myself when I think of my end. No, it
seems impossible. Nice, fifteen jears, the three Graces,
Rome, the follies of Naples, painting, ambition, unheard of
hopes, and to end in a coffin, without having had anything,
not even love !
Well, I said so ; one cannot live when one is like me,
and when circumstances are as . . . those which have
formed my life. To live would mean too much. And
nevertheless, stranger and more fabulous fortunes are to be
seen than the one I dreamed of
Ah ! whatever sorrow is felt, it contains a joy. I was
right ; the only horrible wounds are those of self-love, they
contain nothing and are worse than death . . . But as for
all the rest — God, death, hopeless love, separation ! — they are
life, for all that I am on the point of crying ; I even
think I am going to die, I am almost sure that I am
weaker. Ah ! I do not complain of that, but of my ears !
And then there is Breslau, now she is another load. Every-
where repulsed with loss, beaten.
Well then, let it be death !
Tuesday, August 9th. — I went to the doctor's this morn-
ing; this is the third time in a fortnight He makes me
return so as to get a louis each time, for the treatment is
always the same.
Really it is enough to drive one mad. They say that
in a thousand such cases, only one will be followed by deaf-
ness, and that case must be mine ! Every day are to be
seen people suffering from the throat, and consumptive
patients either suffering or dying, but they don't become
deaf Ah, it is such an unexpected and horrible blow!
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PARIS, 1881. 481
What! was it not bad enough to lose my voice, to
be ill, that this nameless torture should be added ? It
must be to punish me for having grumbled at trifles !
Is it God who punishes ? The God of pardon, of goodness,
of mercy ? Why the most spiteful of men woula not be
more inexorable ! And I am tortured every instant. Blush-
ing before my own people; feeling their lundness in speak-
ing louder !
In the shops I tremble every minute, but that is not
the worst; what tricks am I not obliged to use with my
friends to hide my infirmity ; oh, it is too cruel, too terrible,
too awful !
Painting and the models ! I do not always hear what
they say to me, and I tremble lest they should speak
Do you think it does not affect my work ? When Rosalie
is there she helps me ; when alone I am seized with giddi-
ness and my tongue refuses to say, " Speak a little louder,
I do not hear very well ! " God have pity on me ! and if
I do not believe in God, it means dying at once in despair.
The lung was attacked after the throat, and the throat has
affected my hearing. Now, nurse it! But I have always
taken care of myself !
It was Dr. fcrishaber who did the mischief, it was after
his treatment that I . . . .
God, must I be so cruelly separated from the rest
of the world ? and it is I, I, I ! Oh ! there are people to whom
it would not be so painful, but ....
Oh ! what a horrible thing !
Wednesday, Augiwt 10th. — I go to Passy every day, but
as soon as I am settled, I become horrified at what I
have commenced. First of all, there's Fortunata whom I dis-
missed, paying him for six sittings for nothing; next it is
the picture I was wild about. Julian had said I was to
modify and improve the composition, and that was enough
to make me feel that I did not know .what to do. At
first, in spite of everything, I did commence it, but after
beginning I got disgusted and frightened at it. The truth
is that 1 have only twenty days left — and if it rains ?
My picture is an election bill, before which there is a
grocer's boy with his basket ; a workman laughing at a
man with a napkin under his arm ; a stupid-looking
masher with an enormous Bonapartist hat, of whom nothing
is seen but .... the hat. In the background is a little
woman. It is life-size, half length. In short, this and the
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482 MARIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
rest drives me mad, my hand trembles as I write. No
sooner have I an idea than I am disgusted with it. There
was only this picture, and I have lost so many days, and
here I am still undecided. Wretched character ! when I am
free to do as I like, I can do nothing. It is my disease
making an idiot of me, and Breslau's honourable mention
clips my wings. Heaven is just I ask myself .... What
of this picture, of which Julian and the others say that it
is neither new nor original ; agreed, but I don't know.
It is 1'ealy however, and then if it is well done it is
sure to be good. I have still to learn if Alexis will be
here in the course of the month of August; he sits for
the masher, and without him, no picture, and I have not
yet found the old man with the napkin. All this would
be nothing if I were decided and m full swing. I am
losing my time, and I spoil my eyes by reading to calm
myself.
No means now of taking my hesitations to anybody on
earth; Tony is in Switzerland, Julian at Marseilles, and I
am desperate ! As soon as I decide anything, a voice says to
me .... After all, whatever I may do, k will always be
to my own disadvantage. If I give up the picture some one
else will do it, and I shall be mortally disgusted; if I do
it, I shall go to work badly, it will rain, and I have already
lost twenty days. All that I may do will certainly be
the opposite of what ought to have been done, therefore I
ought to rive up caring for anything. And you see me.
Ah how dreadful it is to have come to this!
I have some white hairs ; one day I found two in front,
that is since I seem to be growing deaf .... Is not this
horrible enough ?
Oh, now .... at least it cuts my recriminations short ;
I have nothing the matter with me ; granted, but I am
no longer gooa for anything. Salon life, politics, intellec-
tual pleasures, all these through a mist; and if 1 risk it,
I also run the risk of covering myself with ridicule or
of being thought either dull or commonplace. What an
abrupt, eccentric, and absent manner I am obliged to affect
to hide from Saint- Amand alone that I cannot hear well !
It is enough to discourage forty horses. Is it possible
to admit that you are deaf when you are young, elegant, and
aspiring to everything? Is it possible to solicit indulgence
and pity under these conditions ?
besides, what is the good of anything ? My head splits,
I no longer know where I am ! Oh no, there is no God
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PABI8, 1881. 483
such as I had imagined There is a Supreme Being, there
is Nature, there is, there is ... . but not the God whom I
have been in the habit of praying to every day. That
he should grant me nothing, well and gooa, but to kill
me in this manner! To make me more unhappy, more
dependent on everybody than any beggar; and what have
I done ? I am not a saint, I do not pass my life in church,
I do not fast ; but you know my life. Except for my con-
stant disrespect towards my family who do not deserve it,
I have nothing to reproach myself with. What is the use
of praying every night and asking pardon for being forced
by circumstances to say hard things to my people? For
if I am in the wrong towards mamma, you know very well
that it is to force her to act
However, I am now horribly stricken down — and
stricken down with the most refined cruelty.
As to God — the God I used to believe I knew — does
not exist It is not possible I But then? Oh no! we
must have a God, so as to be able to lay the good and the
evil to somebody's account
Friday, August Ifth. — Perhaps you think I have decided
upon something ! I can do nothing ! I feel the awful
conviction of my own incapacity ! It is over a month, count-
ing the time lost in travelling, since I have done anything !
I cannot even imagine that I am working. I am horrified
beforehand with the untalented, dry and cold things that I
may produce. It is odious ! I can do nothing ! And
everything conspires against me I I give up the picture,
and decide to paint Elstnitz, but she goes away in two
days. Then I go to seek a model, whom I do not find:
Then I run to Julia's, she can only begin to sit on Mon-
day. I turn round to the little girl of the concierge, but
she has three more days to be at school So ! . . .
Then I go to see Amanda, who is working in the court-
yard of her house at Issy. It does me good, though she
is not artist enough to put me into real spirits. Never
mind, it is refresning. . . I come in resolved to paint
that damned picture.
Satwrday, August 13£A. — Well, I work at it for two
hours, or hardly that, and then I wish you may get it!
Who can tell? It mignt have been very good. Then I
decide, but say to myself directly, " It is pretentious, and
expresses nothing." Indeed, I do not like my models. Then
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434 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
I see the picture exposed on the Boulevard, just after the
elections. And then it is so unfeminine a subject But who
can tell ? Perhaps if I stick to it ? — there is the perhaps,
which drives me wild. Julian's opinion! — but Julian was
wrong about Zilhardt this year; he had prophesied good,
and it turned out to be a horror. I shall rely on fate, but
if fate does not say the same as I do . . . and what do I
say?
It is a misfortune, upon my word. I absolutely need
Alexis for the picture, and I don't know when he will come
back ! — and I have only eighteen days !
Then you are mad ! — Oh no, I have time enough !
Yes, fate ! . . . Well, I open this book at random :
I place my finger on it at random, and if the number
of letters in the line on which my finger rests is even, I
rive up the picture. . . Good, it is even ! But . . .
You do not forget that my right lung is diseased. Well,
you will be pleased, no doubt, to learn that the left lung is
equally attacked. Not one of those idiots of doctors nas
told me so as yet ; besides I only felt it for the first time
in the catacomb of relics at Kieff. I thought it was a
momentary pain, caused by the damp. Since then it
comes back every day, and to-night so badly that I find
it difficult tc breathe, and I feel a real pain between
the collar-bone and the breast, just where the doctors make
their little tapping.
And the picture?
Stinday, August lUh. — I got to sleep with difficulty,
and this morning I am still in pain, but m the back also ;
and each time I breathe it is the very devil, and each
time I cough it is two devils. Oh ! how well I am !
Yes, how well I am ! Now it is decided I give up the
picture. But how much time lost ! More than a month.
As for Breslau, encouraged by her honourable mention,
all must go smoothly; as for me, my wings are clipped,
and I have lost confidence.
Thursday, August IStk — To-day. . . do not read on
if you want to be amused. I spent the day working, and
telling myself in petto the most cruel truths the while.
I looked at my portfolios, and my progress can be
followed step by step. Now and then I tell myself that
Breslau painted before I could draw, . . but you will
say that this girl is my whole world ? I doi^t know, but
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PARIS, 1881. 486
it is no slight feeling whioh makes me fear this rivalry.
From the very first day, and in spite of what the men and
my fellow-students said, I discovered her talent; you see
that I am right The very thought of that girl makes me un-
comfortable ; a single stroke of hers on one of my drawings
gave me a blow to the heart ; I feel her to be a force
against which I am breaking. . She always compared • her-
self with me. Only imagine, the nobodies of the studio
always said she would never paint; "her colour is bad,
she can't paint, she only knows how to draw." Just what
is said of me. It ought to be a consolation, it is in fact
the only one I have.
In 1876 (February) she already had the medal for a
drawing. She had commenced in the month of June, 1875,
having already worked for two years in Switzerland. For
two years I witnessed her struggle against the most signal
failures in painting; but it came little by little, ana in
1879 she exhibited by Tony's advice. I had been painting
for six months at that time, in a month's time I shall
have been painting for three years. Now the question is
to know whether 1 am capable of doing anything like her
exhibition picture of 1879 ? Julian said that the one she
exhibited in 1879 was better than that of 1881 ; but, as
they were not friendly, he did not press her forward to-
wards success, but remained neutraL
Her picture of last year was placed, the same as mine
in the morgue, i.e., the outer gallery. Now this year she
is making it up with Julian, and is patronised besides by
the new school, and placed on the line. The reward follows.
When 1 leave the studio my aunt and I go out in a
fly to drive on the banks of the Seine, on the Trocad£n
side, through the avenues of Tourville. . . . -What a
delightful quarter, not well enough known! I feel tired,
as fireslau used to feel. I think myself almost shrivelled
as she is, and I admire the sky and the beauties of tone of
the distance, as she did. But I howl, not from plagiarism,
it comes of itself, and 1 flatter myself that it may
bring me a little good painting. Breslau is constantly
in my mind, and I do not make a stroke without
wondering how she would do it, and how she would
set to work on it. It means that the subject is
nothing ! nothing ! nothing ! the quality of the painting
is everything, excepting where historical pictures are con-
cerned. But now ! and certainly they are quite right ; a
head, a hand, is enough if the painting is good ; my work
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486 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
is dry ! cold ! and hard ! . . . "I will take to sculpture,"
I said one day; and Julian added, "Rather dry in the
modelling." This turns me cold.
But in sculpture it is impossible. You model as you see
things, there is no trickery, no colour, no optical illusion. . . .
But why do these people — for instance, Tony — why do
they persist in advising me. to go on ? Tony has no profit,
nor, For the matter of that, Julian, for the time has come
when I shall work much more at home than I do with
him.
Occupied with my painting, I said nothing of the
departure of Elstnitz. She has been wishing to go for a
long time, but has always been kept on ; but the poor child is
done up, and bored to death. Only think, I say "Good-
morning ! " and " Good-night ! " and every night I reproach
myself for not having talked more, and every day it is the
same again. I have nad a hundred and fifty generous im-
fulses to be more friendly to her, but there I stopped, and
find my excuse in the sorrows which crush me.
She nas gone, the poor little thing, really an angelic
nature. Ana this departure wrung my heart very much ;
but she will be happier over there. What I am particularly
sorry for, is that I can no longer make any reparation for my
coldness and indifference ; I treated her as I do mamma, uiy
aunt, Dina, but it is less painful to my own people: while
this child — a stranger, alone, so gentle, and so calm ! She
left yesterday at nine o'clock. I could not speak for fear of
crying, and I affected a careless look, but I hope she may
have seen.
Saturday, August 20th. — I have been alone to see
Falgui&re, the sculptor. I told him that I was an
American, and showed him some drawings, also expressing
mv wish to work. He thought one of them very good indeed,
all the others good. He sent me to a studio m which he
gives advice, and further, if it was not satisfactory, he placed
nimself at my disposal, either for me to take him my work, or
for him to come to me. That is kind ; but for that purpose I
have Saint-Marceaux, whom I adore, and I shall be satisfied
with the studio.
Biarritz, Friday, September 16th. — Having said " Good-
bye," we started on Thursday morning ; we were to have spent
the night at Bayonne, but we preferred to go to Bordeaux,
where Sarah was playing ; so we had two balcony stalls for
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BIARRITZ, 1881. 487
fifty francs, and I saw La Dame aux Cam&ias. Unfortu-
nately, I was very tired. This woman has been so much
talked of, that I cannot quite realise what were my impres-
sions. I imagined beforehand that she would not do anything
like anybody else, so I was surprised to see her walk and talK
and sit down. I have only seen her four times — once, when I
was little, in the Sphinx ; then lately, again in the Sphinx ;
and in L&trang&re. Extraordinary attention is paid to her
slightest movements. In fact, I don't know, I think she is
ravishing.
It is quite certain that Biarritz is beautiful ! beautiful ! . . .
The sea has been of a lovely colour all day.
Such tine greys ! . . . .
Saturday, September Vlth. — So far, none of those supreme
elegances which I dreamed of seeing at Biarritz. As to the
beach, from the artistic point of view, it is disagreeable and
ugly.
Oh bay of Nice ! Oh gulf of Naples ! and even the little
beaches around Nice, Eses, BeauHeu, &c. Here you are
teased by a lot of little rocks, thrown about anyhow ; they
look like cardboard decorations, placed there on purpose.
The beach is small ; on the right is a lighthouse, on the left a
rock ; and, beyond these, are two ramparts and enormous
deserted beaches.
The view is wild, without being picturesque; there is
not a house really on the edge of the sea ; you have to go
up and down ana up again, all the time ... I have been
exploring the neighbourhood for two hours in a carriage,
and I have not found the shadow of a subject, not a fisher-
man, not a boat, only fir-trees and villas and high-roads.
It would be better to go to Spain ; I should see the museums,
I could take some copies, and perhaps I might find a
picture to paint — in any case, some studies. Yes, to spend
a month or six weeks with hardly any luggage, quiet and
unknown.
Sunday, September ISth. — I have some short cambric
and white woollen gowris without any trimming, but
charmingly fresh and smart; some very pretty cloth shoes
which 1 bought here, and white hats — young-looking hats
appropriate to happy women. They form a very noticeable
whole.
And in my state of mind this is perfectly maddening,
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488 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Mamma and. my aunt are neither lively nor gay. In fact, it
is quite the reverse of a pleasure trip to an elegant, seaside
place.
I cannot, however, resign myself to remaining shut up
in Paris, for I shall never go into any society but the highest,
and the silence and solitude of the studio is, after all, the
greatest happiness.
Tuesday, September 27 th. — Yesterday, at Bayonne, a
family party ; to-day, at Fontarabia, with the family, too ; I
never go out without them. 1 wanted to go on horseback,
but the bodice of my habit fits so badly, and it would be
tiresome to ride with a Russian whom I do not know well,
and who is dull. Fontarabia is charming; whereas Biarritz
is so common, so clumsy in its very commonplace beauty,
that you are glad to get away from it And just opposite,
near the little narbour, are some beggar children, who would
do very nicely for a picture ; but I want to see Spain first, and
if I do not meet with anything better there, I shall return by
Fontarabia.
There was a roulette, so I played ; but having lost forty
francs, made sketches instead. It's a little corner at the
world's end, so I hope nobody saw me gambling. Fancy a
three hours' drive listening to Mme. K ! This lady
talked commonplaces, which had not even the charm of
ordinary society chatter. Heavens, what have I done to be
like this ?
Why can't I eat the bad cookery at the hotel, which
even royal princesses eat ? Why can't I endure the intellec-
tual penury by wnich I am surrounded? I have doubtless
only what I deserve ; and, in short, if I were really such a
superior person, I should find a means .... An, deadly
diuness !
Oh dreams of my childhood ! Oh divine hopes !
If there is a God, He has forsaken me. I am only at peace
in Paris ; in travelling I am constantly thrown with my
family, and it irritates me. Not that my mothers are viilgar,
or wanting in manners ; when there are no strangers, they are
very nice, and then they are my mothers. But with strangers
mamma poses and affects a certain kind of pronunciation,
which exasperates me.
It is partly my fault I have always reproached them with
not having succeeded in making their way in society, and I
sometimes say disagreeable things to spur them on to do
something. But the only result is to give them this pitiful
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8PAIN, 188L 489
attitude. I am always complaining of my people ; but I love
them ; I am just
Madrid, Sunday, October 2nd. — You seem to wake from a
dream on leaving this infamous butchery. A bull fight I An
abominable slaughter of old hacks and cows, where men
appear to be running no risks and play an ignoble part.
Indeed, the only times I felt interested was to see the men
rolling in the dust. One of them was trampled on by the
bull ; nis escape was quite miraculous, and he nad an ovation
in consequence.
People throw cigars and hats, which are thrown back
with great dexterity; and they wave their handkerchiefs
uttering most savage howls. A cruel game, but is it
amusing? No, it is not! It can't be called exciting or
interesting. A so-called raging beast, worried by many
coloured cloaks, and further maddened by a species of sword
which they stick in its body. The more the Wood runs the
more the animal shakes itself, bounds forward, and is
wounded again. Wretched horses with bandaged eyes are
E laced before it and ripped up by it ; the entrails protrude,
ut, nevertheless, the horse rises to its feet, obeying its rider
to the last gasp — the man falls with it but is rarely hurt.
Black blood on the sand, scarlet blood on the back of the
bulls. I noticed a black bull, on our arrival, on which the blood
looked like scarlet ribbons — at first I thought he had been
decorated with them — the darts stuck in his skin were
streaming. The fight continues after the horses have been
killed. A dozen Spanish simpletons irritate the bull, covering
him with wounds till he rushes after them ; but he is always
foiled by the cloak. And when at last he stops with averted
head, wounded, bleeding, groaning with pain, they again wave
the red cloak before him, kicking him the while. Then
the public begin stamping, and the poor beast falls on its
knees and lies down to die m the inoffensive attitude of a cow
resting in a field. It is killed with a single blow on the back
of the neck A band begins playing, and three horses
decorated with ribbons and harnessed to a sort of hook go off at a
gallop with the dead bulL And then it begins all over again.
Three men on horseback, some more disembowelled horses,
and the toreadors with their ridiculous and bloody worryings.
And when about fifteen horses and five or six bulls have
been killed, the fashionable world goes for its drive to Buen
Retiro — one of the most beautiful promenades in existence —
which I prefer to the Bois de Boulogne, not to mejitioji
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490 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
London, Vienna, and Rome. But no, Rome has a charm to
which nothing is comparable.
The King, the Queen, and the Infantas, were present at the
bull-fight. There were over 14,000 spectators ; and it is the
same every Sunday. And you must see the head of all those
sinister fools to understand how it is possible that such
horrors should excite them. If they were genuine horrors at
least ; but these inoffensive horses, these bulls that are only
infuriated after being irritated, hurt, and martyrised ! . . . .
The Queen, who is Austrian, can't enjoy it The Kine has
the look of an Englishman in Paris. Tne youngest of the
Infantas is the only one who is charming. Queen Isabella
told me I was like her. I feel flattered, for she really is
charming.
We left Biarritz on Thursday morning and arrived in
Burgos in the evening. I have tieen struck by the majestic
beauty of the Pyrenees. Thank goodness, you leave the
pasteboard rocks of Biarritz behind you !
We travelled with a stout gentleman who spoke no French,
and none of us can talk Spanish ; nevertheless he managed to
explain an illustrated paper and to offer me some flowers at a
station. Besides him tnere was a young man going to
Lisbon, a sort of Englishman from Gibraltar, who tried to
make himself useful. If you think that this journey with my
mothers is an amusement, you make a nice mistake Indeed,
it's only natural, for they possess neither my youth nor my
interest As it is past, however, I won't speak of their
harmless teasing ways, especially as they are so meddlesome
that they will give me a thousand occasions on which to
speak of them. They look miserable and ask absurd
questions, pretending to think that we are in a country to
which no one ever goes ! And the guide said it was cold at
Burgos ; it is very aggravating, for we ought to have brought
fur cloaks ! What a country, and what is there to see ? The
Cathedral ; but only Englishmen go there ! The worst of it
was that all these remarks were aimed at me in the third
person, or else they would say nothing about it but look
unutterable things while talking on other subjects ; and if I
frotest they say that I am trying to pick a auarreL And yet
had not insisted on coming ; they themselves proposed our
going to Spain.
Well then, Burjjos. . . % . Oh ! they are unbearable ; when
not sorrowfully resigned orgiving vent to complaints in the
third person, they snow a complete indifference that is really
astounding,
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SPAIN, 1881. 491
All the same I made a rough sketch in the Cathedral . . .
Is it possible to describe it ? A mass of ornamentation ; of
tinted sculptures, of gilding, of fioritura and gew-gaw devices
which produce an imposing whole.
Ah ! those dim chapels, those tall gratings — really it is
a marvel ; especially this stamp of religious romanticism ;
these churches suggest rendezvous; while dipping their
fingers in holy water people look round for some one to ogle.
This applies also to the comparatively modest convent of
La Cartuja. We go there in the evening, which emphasises
still more the poetry of Spanish churches; at the Cathe-
dral they show tnat famous Magdalen of Leonardo da Vinci (?)
Horror! I must confess that I find it ugly, and it says
nothing to me, which for that matter is also the case with
the Kaphaels.
We are in Madrid at last, since yesterday morning. At
the Museum this morning. Ah! the Louvre fades by com-
parison ; Rubens, Philippe de Champagne . . . with Vandyck
and the Italians. Nothing can be .compared to Velasquez ;
but I am still too dazzled to judge. And Ribera! Oh,
heavens ! They are the true naturalists !
Is it possible to see anything more true, more admirably
true ! Ah ! how stirring it is, how unhappy it makes you
to see such things ! How one would like to have genius !
And they dare compare the colourless Raphael and the paint-
ing of the French SchooL
Colour! To feel colour and not to be able to produce
it, is surely impossible ! Soria came before .dinner with his
friend, M. Pollack (a railway director), and his son, who is
a painter ; he has worked at Julian's.
I shall go to the Museum alone to-morrow. For nothing
is more painful than to hear silly remarks while looking at
masterpieces. It hurts one like being cut with a knife, yet
to get angry looks foolish. And in fact I feel a certain
delicacy wmch is not easily explained ; I can't bear being
seen admiring anything, or to be discovered under the im-
pression of a genuine emotion ; it is difficult to explain.
It seems to me that we can only speak seriously of
something that has thrilled us with some one who com-
pletely shares our ideas. . . . One can talk well with . . .
Yes, I can talk well with Julian, who is not a fool, but there
is always a touch of exaggeration in order to give a ridiculous
turn to your enthusiasm so as to protect you from sarcasm,
however slight it may be. But to have had a deep impression
made upon you, and express it simply and seriously as I have
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492 MARIE BASHKIRT8EFF.
felt it ... I can't imagine myself doing so excepting to
some one I loved completely . . . For supposing I could speak
of it to an unsympathetic person, the link thus created would
prove very awkward afterwards ; it would be like having com-
mitted something wrong together.
Otherwise you must treat it in the Parisian style, and
affect to talk shop, so as not to appear too poetical in
speaking of the artistic side, using words wnich prove it
to be something exquisite, but are slang of the Boulevard :
delicacies, subtleties, and then you'd say "that is strong,
that's simply the most stunning thing you can see. . . ."
Tuesday, October 4th. — But wait, let us have done with
yesterday. From the Buen Retiro we go to a cafe to hear
a species of gipsies sing, and to see them dance.
It is very strange mdeed ; a man twanging a guitar and a
dozen women beating time with their hands; then all at
once one of them begins to give utterance to certain notes,
the chromatic scale all topsy-turvy : it is impossible to
describe. In fact it's thoroughly Arabian ; after an hour you
have had quite enough of it These women are in dressing-
gowns with kerchiefs on their shoulders and flowers in their
hair, and these muslin or even cotton gowns hide the move-
ments of the hips, which are always so characteristic. All
Spanish women are good to paint, if not pretty. Such
complexions, such eyes ! Ah ! you understand Spanish paint-
ing after seeing them, they are . . . superb ! What loaded
lights, what unctuous touches, what breadth, what colouring !
Since nine o'clock this morning I have been at the Museum
with Velasquez, beside whom everything looks dry and colour-
less, exceptmg Ribera, who doesn't come up to him, however.
In the portrait of an unknown sculptor there is a hand ! . . .
It's the key to all the technique of (Jarolus Duran, who, as you
know, wants to re-edit Velasquez.
We have bought a guitar and a Spanish mandoline . . .
Impossible to imagine Spain . . . And I am told that Madrid
is less characteristic than what I am going to see, Granada,
Toledo, Seville ... In short, I am enchanted to be here, I
am in a fever till I have tried my hand at some sketch in
the Museum, then to paint a picture after that, and I will
stop here two months it necessary.
Tliursday, October 6th — I have copied the hand by
Velasquez ; I was modestly dressed in black with a mantilla
like all the women here, but I have been much looked at,
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SPAIN, 1881. 493
especially by one man. It seems they are worse in Madrid
than in Italy ; they promenade under the windows with
guitars; they follow you everywhere, talking all the time,
and persistently. Notes are exchanged in the churches,
and young girls have five or six admirers; they are ex-
tremely gallant to women, and their attentions have nothing
insulting ; for the demi-monde, in the French sense of the word,
does not exist ; this sort of women is thoroughly despised ;
but men tell you quite frankly in the street that you are
pretty, and that they adore you ; they ask permission to
accompany you, quite respectfully, knowing you are a lady.
You may see men throwing down their cloaks for you
to walk over. For my part, I think it enchanting. When I
go out, very simply but tastefully dressed, they stop to look
at me, and I revive — it's a new and romantic existence, tinged
with the chivalry of the middle ages.
Sunday, October 9th. — Well, there's nothing new.
Pollack and Escobar have come every day. Mamma was
leaving for Russia, and their presence has spared us many
tears. I have been very sad since the morning — and yet
it must be ; she must go, as my father wants to see her on
business. Now she is gone.
We pass the evening talking art with Pollack, and now
that I am alone I imagine all kinds of dreadful things. If
mamma were to die without seeing us again!
Oh, if it were to happen it would be a punishment for
my idiotic filial revolts.
I should pass my life in weeping at not being able to
wipe out my harshness. . . Just think, to feel yourself
guilty, and never, never to be able to repair your folly !
And she would die thinking I did not love her — that
it is all the same to me, that I am comforting myself, nay,
perhaps even that I am happy !
I expect all kinds of misfortunes, but 1 can't imagine
how I should bear this one. . . Better anytning in the
world than this . . . become blind, paralysed. . . .
It would be pitiable : but if I were to lose mamma under
the present circumstances, it would seem to me that I had
killed her.
Monday, October 10th. — While I was working at the
Museum, two men, rather old, and not very good-looking,
approached me, and asked " if I was not Mile. Bashkirtseft"
" Certainly." Then they were all excitement. M. Soldatenkoff
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404 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
is a millionaire from Moscow — a great traveller, who adores
art and artists. Then Pollack tells us that Madrazo, the
son of the director of the Museum, and himself an artist,
has liked my copy very much, and wished to make my
acquaintance. Ola Soldatenkoff asked me if I sold my
things, and I foolishly said no.
As regards painting, I am on the way to learn a great
deal — I see things I didn't sea My eyes are opened, and I
stand on tiptoe, nardly daring to breathe, lest the enchant-
ment should be dispelled, for it is genuine enchantment I
seem to touch my dreams at last — I seem to understand
what requires to be done. All my faculties are straining
towards the one awe-inspiring aim — a line piece of painting
— not house-painter's work . . . but real flesh — living tones,
. . . and when you have done that, and are an artist, you
may do admirable things. For the execution is everything!
Take Vulcan's Forqe, by Velasquez, or his Filandi&res /
Take away the prodigious painting from these pictures, and
what but a commonplace sort of person remains — no
matter who. Many people, I know, will protest — idiots,
who pretend to adore sentiment . . But the senti-
ment, don't you see, is in the workmanship, in the poetry
of the execution, in the charm of the brush. You don t
realise to what an extent this is so ! Do you like the
early masters, with their thin and naive forms, and their
smooth painting ? It's curious and interesting, but you
can't care for that! Do you love the sublime pasteboard
Madonnas of Raphael ? You will think me coarse, but I
must say, it doesn't touch me. . . I own that they have
a nobility of sentiment which I respect, but can't love.
Now Tlie Sclwol of Athens, also by Raphael, is truly
admirable, and incomparable, like some other of his compo-
sitions, especially in engravings or photographs. And in
these you really get the thougnt, the feeling, t e inspiration
of genius. Mark you, I am quite as much against the
ignoble flesh painting of Rubens, and the magnificent, but
stupid, flesh painting of Titian. You want mind and
matter ; you want, in short, to be a poet in your execution
and a thinker in your composition, like Velasquez.
Tuesday, October 12th, — I dreamt that somebody ex-
plained to me what was the matter with my right lung.
The air does not penetrate to certain parts . . . but it is
too disgusting to relate. The disease nas attacked me, that's
enough. Ah, I know it ! for during some time past I feel
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SPAIN, 1881. 495
a certain discomfort — an indefinable kind of weakness. But
I am not as I used to be — I feel something different from
others. I am enveloped by a weakening sort of vapour,
figuratively speaking, of course. There's something queer
the matter with my chest, and I have . . . But why
write these absurdities? We shall see.
Wednesday, October 13th. — I have always hated Paris
physically, always, always! Madrid is mucn more sympa-
thetic, in spite of its irregular streets and poverty-stricken
look, when compared with Paris. Look at Paris ! its elegance
is wearisome; its shops, its cocottes, its bran-new houses,
are all dreadfully anti-artistic. Oh Rome! (and Madrid is
a little like it). Oh the South! I come from the South;
I was born in the Ukraine, and grew up in Nice. I adore
the South.
I have finished my copy of Vidcan, by Velasquez, and it
must be good, if I can judge by the public. Those poor devils
who make reduced copies of famous pictures for sale come
several times in the course of the day to see me paint ; so do
the lads from the Fine Arts School, as well as foreigners,
several of whom, speaking in English, French, or Spanish, have
said the most flattering things of me.
And when I leave, they go up the ladder to look at my
big brushes, and to see what the painting is like. In a worn,
my dear children, it would be enough to turn a person's
head if she were less ambitious.
Friday, October 14£/i. — Yesterday, at seven o'clock in the
morning, we started for Toledo. I had heard so much in its
praise that I hardly know what I expected ; in spite of
common sense, I kept imagining a marvel of mediaeval and
Renaissance art, wonderful specimens of architecture, sculp-
tured gates blackened by time, balconies of divine workman-
ship, &c.
I knew that it was quite different in reality, but it had
taken possession of my fancy, and spoilt Toledo when I found
it to be a Moorish town with its mvariably thin walls and
notched, or apparently notched, gates. Toledo lies quite high,
like a citadel, and when you look down from the summit
on the landscape and the Tagus, it reminds one of some of
those rural-looking backgrounds of Leonardo da^Vinci, or
even Velasquez — those mountains of a bluish-green, looking
like a bird s eye view seen through a window, near to whicn
H H
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496 MARIE BABHEJET8EFF.
is a lady or a gentleman in plum-coloured velvet with beau-
tifully shaped nanda
As for Toledo itself, it is a labyrinth of irregular little
streets, so narrow that the sun cannot reach them, in which
the inhabitants seem to be camping, owing to the queer look
of the houses ; it is a mummy ; a Pompeii in complete
preservation, but looking as if it were about to crumble into
the dust of old age, with its scorched soil and high walls
baked by the sun. There are courtyards of astonishing
picturesqueness ; mosques turned into churches, and daubed
over witn whitewash ; which, however, is scraped off little
by little, revealing very curious designs and arabesques
still brilliant in colour, ceilings of blackened rafters, or
beams curiously interlaced right at the top. The cathedral
is, of course, admirable, with a profusion of ornament, like
that of Burgos. Oh ! the gates are marvels ; and then there
are the cloisters, with the courtyard filled with oleanders
and rose-trees pushing through the galleries and climbing
up the pillars with their thin, sad, grave-looking statues ! Ana
if a sunbeam penetrates this interior, the poetry of it is in-
comparable.
indeed, the Spanish churches are something that can't be
imagined. The tattered guides, the sextons dressed in velvet,
the foreigners and dogs, wno walk about, praying and barking,
&c, possess a peculiar charm. On coming out of one of these
chapels, you would suddenly like to meet the idol of your
soul behmd one of these pillars.
It seems incredible that a country so near the centre of
European corruption should still be so fresh, so wild and
untouched.
At Toledo one seems to be out of the world. ... 1 don't
know, there are too many things to be seen, and I only stayed
a few hours. . . . But I mean to return and paint some of
those very black little streets .... and those colonnades,
pillars, antique gateways with their big Spanish and Moorish
nails. What gems, what marvels ! fiut it was very hot, I
couldn't see much. It is intensely picturesque; everything
turns to a picture ; you need not even choose, for everything
is strange and interesting. But it does not appeal to
me. . . . Perhaps if I were to look at it better ? . . . . It
is this mixture of Goth, Arab, and Spaniard ; well, that
doesn't concern me. The Coro of the catheciral is really
wonderful; the pews of the chancel, for example, are
covered with historical bas-reliefs, and sculptured wood
wrought with such detail and finish that you are filled
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SPAIN, 1881. 497
with admiration. But I told you that the elegance,
wealth of ornamentation, and airy lightness of this
cathedra] are astonishing. It seems as if colonnades, carvings,
and arches, could not withstand the wear and tear of time, you
fear to see such treasures falling into ruin ; it is so beautiful that
it fills you with a personal kind of dread, but for the last
four or five centuries this prodigy of patience has stood there
unshaken and admirable. As I say, the thought that haunts
you on coining away is, if it will only last ! And you tremble
at the idea of its being spoilt, destroyed, worn out I wish
no one were allowed to touch this creation with a finger;
even the people who walk about in it are, to some ex-
tent, guilty, for they must be adding to the very gradual
but inevitable destruction of this marvellous building.
Doubtless for centuries to come, it will still remain, but ....
And then, on coming out, there are the lofty battlemented
walls with Arab windows, cracked and dried by the
sun ; the mosques, with their grandiose succession ot
pillars with arabesque ornaments. But go to Rome
to see the sun setting behind the Cupola, and all
these astonishing gew-gaws and wonders of sculptured
stone, of Gothic and Arab gates, all these delicate and orittle
marvels imparting a sense of pride and uneasiness, yes,
they will all fall like scales before it, and look puerile in
comparison.
1 am looking at the photographs ot Toledo, it seems
to me that I am mistaken, and that I have not seen it
properly.
Saturday, October 15th. — I have passed the day at the
Escurial with my aunt, whom it bored, and who, looking quite
unconcerned all the time, tried to cheat me. Had I not heard
the guide, she would have tricked me out of the vaults . . .
in order not to tire me, " and then the coffins, how dreadful."
What a nuisance to travel in this way ! As in a dream did I
see this immense block of granite — so sombre, sad, and
imposing. As for me, I think it magnificent ; this majestic
sadness has a charm of its own. The palace has been
built in imitation of the grating of St. Lawrence (see the
guide books), which imparts to it something of the look
of barracks, if you will excuse the expression. But its
granite walls, of the thickness of a Parisian nouse — its cloisters,
colonnades, galleries, terraces, court-yards, and sheet of green
water, produce a deep impression, seen rising above a
parched and sombre plain, wnich is undulated like the sea,
H H 2
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98 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
It is cold, they say — cold and sad ; may-be, but it is
soothing after the perplexing visions of Toledo ! We went
to the royal suites of rooms, rather loud and ugly . . . ;
the king's own room, however, is a gem ; such doors of inlaid
wood with ornaments of polished iron and pure gold. . . ;
then a delicious oratory in embroidered silk ! What a
contrast to Philip the Second's room! This tyrant dwelt
in a bare, miserable cell, leading into a kind of low chapel
of marble, which in its turn led into the church. He
could see the altar and hear mass from his bed. I cannot
altogether remember all the rooms, cloisters, and staircases,
we visited, it is so huge. Then those long galleries with
immense windows, whose wooden shutters were fastened
with locks, and massive doors with but little ornament on
them.
The church is admirably simple, the bare grand arches
producing a very imposing enect.
The royal vault and the staircases leading to it, all of
variegated marble, are very sumptuous.
The coffins are of solid marble with ornaments in re-
pousse copper. It is splendid. There are only five places
left. The touching figure of Mercedes is waiting in a little
side chapel till the vault of the infantas and childless
queens shall be rebuilt
The Coro consists of uncarved wood, but in the centre
stands a marvellous chorister's desk with books as big as
myself
Oh, and as for the library there are manuscripts which
I stood admiring for a long time, although I don't under-
stand much about them.
And would you have me prefer little delicate pretti-
nesses to this gloomy majesty ? What character, what
sobriety, is here. How far removed from the indescribable
load 01 profuse ornamentation and the tiresome affectations
of Toledo!
After this you are shown into the park where the king
foes rabbit shooting, and into the Pavilion, built in 1781,
believe — a gem. Stairs and porch are of coloured marble ;
there are a number of little salons hung all over with
inctures, very fine pictures too, and with pale, deliriously
aded silk, covered with exquisite embroidery, blue flowers
and roses; the greens with their harmoniously faded tints
stand out delicately on the white background of an incom-
parable ivory tone.
These little salons of dim white or pale blue and faint
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SPAIN, 1881. 499
gold satin, with exquisitely painted or inlaid ceilings, are
enough to turn one's head.
There is a little room hung with pictures worked in
tapestry; they look like paintings a few steps off. And
what miracles of ivory work and porcelain !
Sunday, October 16th. — One of the chief curiosities here is
the Ra8tro, a street lined with stalls of all kinds, as at fairs in
Russian villages, where you find something of everything.
And such a stir, excitement, and swarm of life beneath this
burning sky. It is admirable. What a wealth of precious
bric-d-brac is to be found in filthy dens, in back shops, and
legendary staircases; heaps of stuffs, tapestries, and em-
broideries enough to drive you crazy !
And these wretches seem utterly unconscious of it ; they
pierce these splendid stuffs with nails in order to hang up
some old frames ; they walk over the embroideries lying
pell-mell on the floor with old furniture, sculpture, picture-
frames, relics, plate, and old rusty nails. ... I bought a
curtain of salmon-coloured silk, covered with embroideries,
for which they asked seven hundred francs, and which I
got for one hundred and fifty ; and a linen skirt embroidered
with pale flowers, very pretty in tone, which they let me have
for five francs, after asking twenty.
How unfortunate not to have one hundred thousand francs
to spend ; I could furnish a studio with only one hundred
thousand francs ! What a lot one could buy.
Escobar came to escort us to the bull-fight We are in a
box with his father, Mme. Martinez, two other persons, and
Escobar. I wanted to go again to have a second impression.
It had been announced that eight bulls would be there, and I
believe it is to be the last Sunday. In short, a brilliant
display. The King, Queen, and Infantas were in their places.
We had sunshine, music, frantic shouting, stamping, hissing,
waving of handkerchiefs, and hats flying about It is a unique
sight, like nothing else in the world, and the grandeur of
which carries you away with it. I began to understand it,
and became interested in the spectacle. I went there much
against the grain, with a shudder of disgust. I kept my
countenance, however, before this butchery, with its refine-
ments of cruelty. ... It is very fine, provided you see
nothing. . . . But you end by gettmg interested, and in face
of these ignominies, keep up your courage from sheer pride.
I looked on all the time. On leaving tne place you feel a
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500 MARIB BASHKIRTSEFF.
little drunk with blood, and feeling as if you would like to
stick a dart into everybody you met
I cut up the melon at table as if I were handling one of
the little darts .... and it seemed as if my meat came
freshly palpitating from the torn skin of the bull ! Oh, it
makes your flesh creep, and your head feel ironbound ; it's a
school for assassins. ... At present these very men are no
doubt behaving with perfect grace and elegance, and in spite of
their exceeding suppleness, they are full of ease and dignity.
People say that this duel of a man with an enormous
beast is magnificent ; but is it really a duel, when you know-
beforehand which of the two will be beaten ? I quite
admit the impressiveness of the matador's first appearance
in his brilliant costume, so advantageously showing off his
form, when, having made his three peculiar bows, he
twists his arms three times above and tnree times in front
of him, as with the utmost coolness he stands with
his cloak and sword calmly confronting the animaL . . .
This, in fact, is almost the best part of the game ;
hardly any blood is spilt Yes, I admit it produces a
startling impression. The Spaniards themselves, indeed,
don't care for the introduction of the horses. Am I, then,
reconciled to this savage pleasure ? I don't say so ; but it has
a fine — nay, almost a grand — side to it This circus, these
fourteen or fifteen thousand spectators ; it seems to give you a
vision of those ancients I love so much. But there is the
sanguinary, horrible, ignoble side. ... If the men were not so
clever — moreover, if they were more often seriously wounded —
I would not complain ; but it's the cowardice of the thing
which shocks me. Yet they say you must be as brave as a
lion. ... Oh no ; they are too clever, and too sure of avoiding
the terrific but simple attacks of the beast, provoked ana
foreseen by them. . . . The real danger is incurred by the
banderillos, for the man runs forward to meet the bull, and
1'ust when it prepares to toss him, he foils it by sticking
lis darts between its shoulders ; to do this, you must possess
exceptional courage and dexterity.
Monday, October 17 th — Tuesday, October l&th. — What
happy people there are, and I, who have everything to make
me so, am far from happy ! I have enough money to come
and go, to paint and travel ; they do whatever I like. You
know the rest I would sooner be in want of money, and not
do what I like, than be with people who drive me crazy with
their obstinacy about what is for my good.
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SPAIN, 1881. 501
r When people are convinced of doing right, there's
nothing more to be done. My family are convinced. If
they did not go in for killing me with kindness, may-be I
should forgive them for their want of artistic taste and
agreeableness. Ah, what happy people there are! No, but
tnis journey with my aunt, you see ! Well, we must go to
Paris to-morrow. . . .
Wednesday, October \9Ui. — I can't deny that I may be
seriously injured by the cough I have. At the same
time I am getting thin. That is to say . . . Yes, to
judge by my arms, I am getting thin. When I stretch one
out, it has a stricken look — not the insolent fulness it
used to have. It's even pretty, and I won't complain yet
At present I have reached the interesting stage ot growing
slender without being too thin, and a certain languishing
air tnat's becoming; but if it continues, I shall end, in a
year, by being a skeleton. . . .
Thursday, October 20th. — This morning I passed two
hours at Cordova, just time to have a look at the city,
which is enchanting .... in its way ; indeed, I adore cities
like this ; there are delightful Roman remains, and a truly
marvellous mosque.
How I should love to remain a month at Cordova!
But to do so I should not be travelling with my aunt,
who, in the course of ten minutes, manages to put me in
a rage as many times by being in a rage herself to begin
with ; sometimes it is : " There's nothing to see, and the
guide is taking us here on purpose to gain money, and
make us lose our train." Then you must have a carriage
to go to the mosque! At Cordova at eight o'clock in the
morning! Just think, one may catch com, and I, who am
dying, mustn't dream of walking; in short, she is furious.
What sweet society, what delightful companionship for an
artistic tour through Spain ! As for me, 1 keep praying all
the time that it may not hurt me ; for it is too baa to
see everything ruined in this fashion. But all the same I
have no luck; it's enough to make you weep.
I take care of myself, and am fond of comfort, and like
to eat well ; but when I am bothered out of my life about
it, I'd sooner be abandoned in the streets! ....
Good heavens, how these people bore me ! .... As long
as there was little Pollack, I escaped from these worries
to some extent. . . . My poor aunt is always delighted, for
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502 MARIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
that matter, when there's some one else, for she knows,
poor woman, that she puts me in a rage.
Saturday, October 22nrf. — Here we are in Seville, of
which we have heard so much. I am losing a lot of time,
it seems. I have seen the museum — a unique room, full of
Murillos. I would prefer something else, for there are only
Madonnas and other sanctities. As for me, who am a
barbarian, coarse, ignorant, and presumptuous, I have never
yet seen a Virgin such as I fancy she should be. Raphael's
Madonnas make beautiful photographs. . . . But I will tell
ou my valuable opinion when I have seen that one again,
confess Murillo has no message for me with his round
and rosy-cheeked Madonnas. There's the one at the Louvre,
which has so often been copied; the artist has really felt
her, and she may even be called divine.
Then there's the cigar and cigarette factory ! What a
smell ! And if it were only tobacco ! A pell-mell of women,
with bare arms and neclts, and young girls and children.
This swarm of human beings were for the most part pretty,
and it's a curious sight. Spanish women have a grace you
will find in no other women. You see caf6-singers, cigarette-
makers, with the carriage of queens, and an incomparable
suppleness and grace. And then the setting of the throat,
and the rounded arms, so pure in form and magnificent in
tone. What splendid and astonishing creatures!
There was one especially, who rose to get some
tobacco-leaves, with the walk of a queen, the suppleness
of a cat, and a divine grace ; she had a splendid head,
a dazzling complexion, with arms and eyes, and oh, a
smile ! . . . .
Not to mention those who are only chic. The little
girls are all funny and delightful; there are some ugly
ones, but very few. And even the ugly ones have a some-
thing.
1 must try and give an account of my time ; I am
getting muddled.
I have seen the cathedral, which is one of the finest
in the world to my mind, and one of the largest; then
the Alcazar, with its delicious gardens and baths for
Sultanas; afterwards we went for a walk through the
streets. I am not exaggerating when I say that we were
the only women with hats, and I attribute the amazement
of the populace entirely to our hats.
I was not even elegantly dressed, for I wore a grey
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SPAIN, 1881. 503
woollen skirt, a tight-fitting black jacket, and a black hat,
suitable for travelling. But strangers are stared at here
like learned monkeys ; people stop them, hoot them, or
else make some amiable remark.
The children jeer at me, but the grown-up tell me I am
Eretty and piquante ; as you know, it is quite the thing to
e salacla.
Seville is so white, oh, so white ; the streets are narrow,
no carriages can pass through most of them ; and yet it isn't
as picturesque as it might be. . . . Ah ! Toledo, I see now
what a barbarian I was !
Toledo is truly a wonder. Seville with its low, white-
washed houses, is rather bourgeois in character. Of course
there are the low quarters . . . but in all the countries in
the world the 'low quarters are the interesting ones ; there
you find such harmony and depth of tone, that you would
wish to paint everything you see.
I feel very irritated at not speaking Spanish ; it's a
dreadful hindrance, especially when you wish to work and
make sketches. . . .
Those half savage women and children in their rags are
tremendous in colour. It is enchanting, in spite of the crude,
white look of the housea But the ram continues, and I am
with my family.
I quite see the happiness of living with one's family, and
should be miserable alone. You can go shopping with your
family, go to the Bois de Boulogne with them, and some-
times to the theatre ; you can be ill with your family, you
can try cures with them ; in short, share with them all the
ordinary and domestic things of life. Oh, but to travel with
your family ! It's just like waltzing with one's aunt, for the
pleasure of the thing ! It is deadly dull, and even borders
on the ridiculous.
I made a study of a beggar yesterday, in four or five
hours — life-size head It is necessary to try one's hand at
these rapid sketches from time to time, to get facility.
I seem to be in exile; the days are so long under this
grey sky ; and as I sleep but little, owing to the mosquitoes,
feel depressed, and not fit for work.
I expected a lot of amusing adventures in Seville, but
am so bored that I remain shut up in the hotel; and it
rains.
No love, no poetry, not even youth. Nothing; really
there's nothing in my life at Seville. I feel buried alive, as
in Russia, this summer. What are all these journeys for ?
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504 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
And what of my painting? ... I have not been to the
studio now for five months ; out of these five months I have
lost three — I, who need study so much ! . . . The mention
of Breslau's name has called up a host of thoughts in me,
or has, so to speak, brought nearer and rendered possible
that dream of a medal at the Salon, which hitherto has seemed
such a far-off thing, that I pictured it in my castles in the air,
as I dream of gettmg the ribbon of the Legion of Honour, or
of becoming Queen of Spain. When Villevielle spoke to me
of Breslau getting an honourable mention, she appeared to
think that it annoyed me, and the fact that the others
considered I might hope for some reward gave me the
courage to think of it, or at least to say to myself, that since
the otners thought I might aspire to it, there must be some
cause for their doing so. ... In short, I have dreamt of it for
the last five months.
This may seem a digression, but it all hangs together.
That sketch I made at Lorenzo's may be turned into a
picture.
Thursday, October 27th. — Oh, what bliss ! I have left that
horrid Seville.
I say " horrid " with all the more gusto, because I am at
Granada since last evening. We have been out ever since
this morning, and have seen the inevitable cathedral, the
G^neralife, and a portion of the gipsy vaults. I am quite
enthusiastic. At Biarritz and at Seville I felt good for
nothing; everything seemed done with and dead. During
the three hours I passed at Cordova I had the impression of an
artistic city — I mean I could have worked there with great
zest There's only one objection to Granada, that is, that I
can't remain six months or a year in it There's so much
to see, that I don't know which way to turn — such streets,
such outlines, such views !
It turns you into a landscape painter ; but, then, behold
such strange and interesting types, so dazzling in colour and
harmonious in tone.
But the most curious thing I saw is the prison of
Granada, where the convicts are at work. I don't know
how I came to think of going, but I certainly don't regret
it, although, on leaving, I felt the same pressure of
the temples that I did after the bull-fight The com-
mandant of the prison gratified the wish of the distinguished
foreigners at once, and we were shown everything. A gaoler
walked in front of us, and we had an escort of six corporals
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STAIN, 1881. 505
the pick of the criminals, armed with sticks, and charged
with Keeping order. It would be impossible to describe the
impression made upon me by this band of men, placing
themselves in a row, and saluting with a rapidity akin to fear
before the epaulets and staves of the gaolers. They are flogged,
so the guide tells me.
In seeing these men disarmed, imprisoned, forced to labour
like children, I can only feel pity instead of thinking of the
misdeeds and crimes wnich brought them there. I must go
farther, and say that I even feel moved, strangely moved,
confronted by this crowd of miserable wretcnes who salute
so humbly, who seem to work so zealously, and show us the
books from which they are taught to read in such a timid
and childish manner.
Yes, you can see that they are flogged : they look like
those poor dogs in the streets who crouch down submissively
to be oeaten.
But what heads one sees! I should like to paint a
picture there. . . . They have given me the permission, and
if I can find some corner with three or four of them. . . .
Unfortunately it would lead to my painting too large a
picture. . . .
I recommend you to pay this gloomy visit before going
to see the G6n£ralife, the gardens of which must surely be
a branch of paradise. How shall I describe this tangle of
oleanders, of orange-trees, and all kinds of the most luxuriant
and exquisite plants; these cypress avenues and creviced
Arabian walls crowned with roses, these little streams between
beds of violets? ... Go to the convicts and then to the
Gen£ralife.
The Alhambra is for to-morrow, as well as the head of
a convict I mean to paint
Friday, October 28th. — This day has been passed in the
prisons of Granada. The prisoners enjoy a deligntful amount
of freedom ; the yard is like a market-place, the doors don't
seem to shut very tightly, and in short, this gaol does not
resemble in the least the description of those kind of places
in France.
My poor devil of a convict sat very well all day; but
as I nave done the head life-size, and sketched the hands
in a day (oh ! sublime genius), I have not been as successful
as usual in rendering the surprisingly ambiguous character
of the individual And I am wrong to lay the blame to
my want of time, for if I am not more satisfied it is because
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506 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
the light changed several times, and also because those good
convicts would stand just behind me, a dozen at a time ; they
took it in turns, but they were always there ; their eyes, thougn
I could not see them, irritated me. The excellent deputy-
? governor, in whose room I was at work, had placed chairs
or his friends as at a show, and they came and sat behind
me in succession all day long. And not an instant passed
without some one knocking at the door ; some of them were
prisoners — the harmless ones — corporals who begged leave
to come in, and who came in. The interpreter and Rosalie
remained all the time, and thus I heard that a man who
has assassinated his wife is to be publicly strangled next
week, that one man is imprisoned because he refused to
uncover himself during a procession, and some other equally
astonishing things.
Have you noticed that when any one says, as I did just
now : other astonishing things, or and other even better ones ;
or, again, but what I've been saying is nothing compared to so-
and-so, it really means that so far from having left the
worst unsaid, there is nothing more to say, but that you
want to clinch the statement by sometning still more
remarkable. For example, you may have neard people
add, after having said tne very worst they could think of,
" Moreover, this is only his ordinary conduct ; so you can judge
of his big offences." But not to forget my convict I had
given him credit for the most dreadful crimes, and, it
seems, he has done nothing worse than utter some forged bank-
notes. But his head looks tit for any crime; so I mean
to invent a nice little story about him to tell in Paris.
The balcony of the window faced the court-yard, and all
these poor devils looked at the model, the easel, and the
painter, with Spanish eagerness. When I was leaving they
ran towards me like famished dogs, and their expression,
their clasped hands, their exclamations, were a study as they
looked at the portrait of their comrade.
As I was crossing the threshold, the deputy -governor very
kindly showed the canvas to all the people on tip-toe in
the yard to catch a glimpse, and then he took it to the
Governor and to the Commandant, who came out in the street
and bowed as I got in the carriage. And after once more
assuring me that they would see me again with pleasure I
was at last able to go tor a drive with my aunt
I wrote in one corner of the canvas : " Antonio Lopez,
condemned to death, 1881, October," for forgery and murder.
Poor fellow ! At any rate, I slander him under a pseudonym,
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SPAIN, 1881. 507
and for aught I know his name may be Roderisjo, or Perez,
or perhaps Lopez. I have depicted him with nis knitting,
for most of these amiable citizens — that is, all those who are
not engaged as carpenters, smiths, and shoemakers, &c. &c. —
may be seen knitting stockings like good housewives.
The men who were condemned to death walked about
the courtyard just as freely as those who had only been
guilty of trifling misdeeds and were imprisoned for a year or
two.
Many of these gentlemen prefer home-cooked food to
that of the establishment, and their charming consorts bring
them delicious dinners which Coco would certainly not
touch — Coco surnamed the assassin, no one knows why:
perhaps because, whenever his colleagues behaved to me
as Francis I. did to Titian, he jumped on them without
barking to make sure of his bite.
Saturday, October 29th. — At last I have seen the Alham-
bra ; I purposely avoided staying long in this most beautiful
place, partly in order not to get too fond of Granada, and
partly oecause the guide who took us about spoilt my
artistic enjoyment by his presence. But I hope to see
it all again.
The beauty of Granada seen from the tower is admirable,
perfect. The mountains covered with snow, the gigantic
trees, the exquisite flowers and shrubs, the pure sky, and
Granada itself with its white houses basking in the sunshine
in the midst of all these natural beauties, the Moorish walls,
the towers of the G6n6ralife, and then the Alhambra ! . . .
And the vast horizon afar looking like the sea ; indeed, only
the sea is wanting to make this the loveliest country in
the world. The palace itself is fantastic in its beauty.
The Moorish dress is unquestionably the most picturesque
in existence. There is nothmg to compare with the haughty
elegance of these superb draperies. 1 am under the spell
of the late Boabdil and his Moors whom I imagine walking
about in this unique palace.
In the afternoon I make a sketch in a little street,
and when I have done I write on the wall : " Andrey has
worked here, 1881." But the shadow on the right hand
side of the sketch is too warm in tone, which detracts
from the brightness of the light, and grieves me. Do
you know it is quite cold, and my fingers were so
numb that I had to go and warm them in the sun ? This
does not encourage me to remain here, as I could not work
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508 MARIE BASHKIBT8EFF.
in the open air. Indeed, why martyrise myself here, be
cruelly bored in the evenings, and not able to sleep on those
infamously hard beds, with nothing to eat in the day
but a plate of soup and a slice of meat, with a cup of
coffee in the morning? But I should have liked to take
one good study back with me. . . .
Sunday, October 30th. — I have spent the whole day
with the gipsies and yet done nothing at alL It's icily
cold, and my face has felt frozen, while the canvas was
covered with dust and sand ; in short, I've done nothing. But
what an inexhaustible mine for artists this is ! One ought
to remain a whole day to catch those attitudes, those
groups, those effects of light and shade ! For one thing the
fipsies are very amiable to foreigners, because the Spaniards
espise them. I ought to come here every day for two or
three months to sketch, and what a lot would still have
to be left undone. I am crazy about these gipsy types,
there is such a natural yet strange kind of grace in their
actions, movements, and attitudes. What marvellous pic-
tures one could paint here. Your eyes run away in all
directions, as they say in Russia; everything is a kind of
picture. It is maddening to have come so late ; but in spite
of the utmost willingness it's impossible to work ; the wind
blowing from the snow-covered mountains is too cutting
to encfure. But oh how beautiful, how very beautiful, it
is ! When I had settled down to paint they came flock-
ing round me, and grouped themselves about the natural
steps of the mountain side; you can imagine how well it
looted ; and then their curiosity is so sympathetic, whereas
the people who surrounded me the other day irritated me
profoundly. The Spaniards are very idle, so that instead
of stopping to look at my work and passing on, a lot of
them remain standing behind me for two or three hours.
And, moreover, I was painting in quite a deserted street, and
there are a great many painters here.
Granada is as artistic and picturesque as Seville is bour-
geois, although it boasts a celebrated college. Almost all
the streets of Granada, yes, almost all, are delightful for a
painter.
You are dazzled and attracted in all directions. You
might begin painting wherever you happen to stop, and it
would make a picture.
I mean to come back here next year tor August,
September, and part of October.
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SPAIN, 1881. 509
Monday, October 31#£. — I am glad the cold is driving me
away, otherwise I would not go, and I ought to be returning
now. It is five months since I saw Tony, and I must think of
taking a studio, and painting my picture for the Salon without
being worried, and in short do all I can. The first year didn't
count. You know how little time I had last year, besides
that, the subject was not my own. But this year I think
I've got hold of something interesting.
I should like to do the bric-ii-brae of Lorenzo with the
staircase and a bright light behind, and a woman mending
carpets on a kind of platform; in the foreground another
woman sits huddled up cleaning some copper utensils, while a
man with his hands in his pockets stands looking at her,
smoking a cigar.
The women should be dressed in common calico dresses,
which I would buy in Madrid just as they are worn. I possess
nearly all the requisite clothes. There would still be the
platform to put up ; that would cost about a hundred francs.
But I shall nave to find a studio that's large enough. ....
This evening I am going away at last, and I can't help singing
for j°y-
My journey in Spain will have cured me of the habit of
eating for the sake of eating, which takes up time and dulls
the intellect I have become as abstemious as an Arab, only
taking what is strictly necessary, just enough to live upon.
The son-in-law of the gipsy chief, in whose house I have
been painting, has just come from the galleys, where he was
kept lour years for having abducted a little girl of thirteen.
Wednesday, November 2nd. — Here we are again at Madrid,
where I've been enjoying myself for a week, as I wanted three
days in order to re-touch the sketch of Lorenzo.
After hearing me talk of nothing else and seeing me full
of impatience to return to Madrid it was quite natural, was it
not, tnat my aunt should come ready dressed to go out
and say, " We are going to spend this day in shopping, are
we not?" And wnen I tell her that I am going to paint
she looks at me in perfect amazement, and says I must be
You suddenly have an idea and think you have found a
subject; you begin concentrating yourself, the dream takes
shape, and you set about making a rough draft, quite absorbed
in your work, cudgelling your brains to find some harmonious
combinations, and just wnen you are on the point of seizing hold
of something that is still rather vague ana shapeless ana may
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510 MABIE BASHKIBT8EFF.
escape you before you have had time to get it more clearly
defined .... just then my dear relations who love me so
much, and are so alarmed when I cough, appear on the scene.
And yet I am not inordinately sensitive ; I think myself very
practical compared to other artists. .... But you see I am
not practical enough. . . . Ah ! careless and inconsistent
family, who will never understand that a less vigorous, a less
energetic, a less exuberant nature, would already have been
dead!
Saturday, November hth. — I am in Paris ! What bound-
less delight! I counted the hours while shivering in the
train. The grey tones of this fine city are very enjoyable after
the exciting air and burning sun of Spain, and I think with
satisfaction of the art treasures of the Louvre — I who was
bored by the mere thought of them.
Julian thought that I would return much later, and most
likely in ill-health, and perhaps never return at alL What a
sweet thing is sympathy, but above all things painting.
Sunday, November 6th. — The law-suit is over, and we have
gained it. That is to say, the preliminary inquiry shows
that there is no ground for a law-suit. It seems too good to
be true, considering for how long it has dragged on, but still
it is so. We have just had a telegram from mamma. This
is a happy day.
Tuesday, November 15th. — I showed the rough draft for
a picture to Julian, who approves. But he doesn't inspire
me with confidence any longer ; he looked confused ; however,
I may be imagining it
Tnere is Tony ; but I have not seen so much of him
still, we shall see.
Poor Mile. Colignon died about twenty days ago. We
never cared much for each other ; but she was so unhappy
of late that I sympathised with her misery in spite of my
indifference.
Thursday, November 17th. — I could not drag myself along
yesterday, as I suffered so much with my chest, my throat,
and my back ; I coughed, and had a cold ; I couldn't swallow
anything, and kept turning hot and then cold.
I feel a little better to-day ; but all the same ! . . . .
I, who have had the advice of the highest medical authori-
ties ! And for so many years ! ever since I first lost my
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PARIS, 1881. 511
voice I have had every care. Yes, this is the ring of
Polycrates which I throw into the sea, much against the
grain. But as this dreadful disease has got hold of me, it
ought to be made up to me by success of another kind. No.
one can say that I have everything, whatever I may attain to.
This should reassure me. . .
Monday, November 21st — Dr. Potain was sent for on
Wednesday, and he has come to-day ; in the interval I might
have riven up the ghost.
I knew quite well that he would again order me south ;
the mere expectation of it made me gnash my teeth ; my
voice trembled, and I had some difficulty in keeping back my
tears.
To eo south is to give in. And considering the persecution
of my family, I feel my honour at stake to keep up in spite of
everything. To go means letting all the vermin of the studio
triumph over me.
" She is very ill ; they have taken her to the south."
Tuesday, November 22tuZ. — It is impossible to express
with what despair this exile to the south mis me. It seems as
if everything were at an end for me who came back overjoyed
at the thought of remaining quietly at work, to work steadily
and without interruptions, while keeping in touch with the
artistic movement .... And now again all has become
vague!
And while others will go on progressing in this art- world
of Paris, I shall be yonder doing nothing, or running after
some picture in the open air, which is a horribly difficult
thing to do.
Look at Breslau, it isn't her peasant woman which has
been the making of her. ... In a word, my heart is break-
ing at the thought of it all.
I have seen Charcot this evening, who says that the disease
has not grown worse since last year ; I have simply been
suffering irom a cold during the last six days, which will soon
be welL As regards my going south, he says just the same
thing: I must go there, or else shut myself up completely
like a prisoner. If not I shall run the risk of catching some-
thing serious, as the right lung is affected, and it seems I have
been lucky to escape hitherto. The disease being local,
and not having increased, in spite of my so-called impru-
dence, may be cured. I was told the same thing last winter,
and wouldn't even listen ; now I hesitate, and spend hours
1 1
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512 MAMIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
in crying, at this idea of leaving Paris, and being inter-
rupted . . .
It is true that if I should often feel as I have been doing
these last days, I shall not gain much by being in Paris. It is
this which fills me with despair !
To give in, to avow myself beaten, to say, "Yes, the
doctors are right ; yes, I am ill ! " Oh, unquestionably, every-
thing goes wrong !
Saturday, November 2&th. — I was to have gone to Tony,
you rememl>er, to work in his presence, show hiin my sketcn,
and decide something, but I didn't go out I feel weak, and
can't eat anything, being still feverish, I suppose. It's
dreadfully sad to be kept inactive by .... by .... I know
not what ; to have no strength, in short ! (Charcot has come
to see me again.
Mamma and Dina arrived yesterday, recalled by my aunt's
insane telegrams. Dina has received a letter from her sister
this morning asking how I am.
I know I have caught cold, but everybody can catch
cold.
But no, everything is over; my ears are in a sad way,
what with this cold and fever. What can I hope for ? What
can I attain ? There's nothing to expect now. It's as if some
veil had been torn the other day, five or six days ago. It's
all over, all over, all over !
Tuesday ', November 29th. — This has been going on for a
fortnight now, and I may expect it to last as long again.
Mme. Nachet has brought me a bunch of violets to-day,
I have seen her as I do everybody, for in spite of continual
fever and congestion of the left lung, alias pleurisy \ and two
blisters, I don t give in ; I get up and behave like other people.
But the quinine makes me deal ; the other night I thought I
should have died of fright when I no longer heard my watch.
And I must go on taking more of it
But after all I feel pretty strong, and if it were not that I
have not been able to swallow anything for the last fortnight
I shouldn't know I was ilL
Ah, but for all that, my work, my picture, my poor
picture ! It is now the 29th of November, and I shall not be
able to begin till the end of December. I shall not have time
enough in two months and a half How unlucky ! There's
no use in struggling when one is born to be unfortunate.
Look at me; painting seemed a refuge, and behold, I am
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PABI8, 1881. 513
almost deaf at times. This makes me most dreadfully un-
comfortable with my models. I endure continual anguish,
and find it impossible to do portraits, unless I mentioned my
infirmity, and 1 have not as yet got this courage. In the next
!)lace, this illness makes it impossible for me to work, and
brces me to remain shut up lor a month. Really, it's too
sad!
Dina never leaves me — she is so sweet!
Paul and his wife arrived yesterday. The Gavinis
came, and G6ry, Bojidar, and Alexis. I kept up my spirits,
and got the oetter of my ills by dint of chaffing and
courage. . . .
The doctors at present afford me a subject for jokes.
Potain, not being able always to come himself, has sent
me a doctor who will come every day.
This amuses me, for I act the mad jjirl, and this gives
me an opportunity for saying the most insane things.
Wednesday, November 30th. — Julian came to see me
yesterday evening. He thinks me very ill, as I could see
fey his affectation of gaiety. As for me, I am deeply grieved.
I am doing nothing; and as for my picture! And, above
all, to be doing nothing ! Do you understand my despair ?
To have to remain here in idleness, while others are
working, are making progress; are getting their pictures
ready!
I thought God had left me painting, and I had fled to
it as to a supreme refuge. And now that too fails me, and
all I do is to spoil my eyes with weeping !
Thursday, December 1st — Friday, December 2nd. — It's
already the 2nd of December. I ought to be at work — to
be looking for all sorts of stuffs, and lor the big vase in the
background. . . . What's the use of these details ? It only
makes me cry. I feel much stronger — I eat, I sleep, I am
nearly as strong as usuaL
But still, there is that congestion of the left lung. The
right side, where the chronic affection is, seems to be
better — but I don't care about that What bothers me is
this acute illness, which is curable, but will keep me indoors
for some weeks still to come. It's enough to make you
drown yourself.
Ah, it is cruel of God ! I had annoyances — family
troubles — but they did not touch the very inmost part of
myself, so to speak. And then I had such vast hopes.
. . . Then I lose my voice — this is the first personal
n2
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514 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
blow. At last I get used to it — I become resigned, I give
it up, I am consoled !
Well, since you can become reconciled to all this, the
means of working shall be taken away from you !
No sketch, no picture — nothing at all — and the loss of
a whole winter! I, who had put my whole life into my
vork! Only those who have been in the same plight will
understand me.
Wednesday, December 7 th. — How this illness exasperates
me ! Yesterday that horrible sub-Potain, who comes every
day — the great man only being able to take that trouble
twice a week — well, this assistant, in a careless sort of way,
asked whether 1 was preparing for my journey ?
Tlteir South indeed ! Oh, merely the thought of it con-
vulses me with rage! I couldn't eat in consequence, and
if Julian hadn't come I should have cried with anger the
whole of the evening.
Well, no, I don't care ! but I won't go south.
Friday, December 9th. — There is a drawing by Breslau
in the Vie modeme. If I hadn't wept so much, I might
have turned my illness to account by making designs and
drawing. But my hands still tremble a little.
The lung is cured, but my temperature is still thirty-
eight degrees. What a fine thing, to tell you all these
details!
I feel I am done for, and dare not ask any questions
for fear of hearing what Breslau is painting.
God, grant my prayer, and give me strength! Have
pity upon me!
Thursday, December 15th — It is now four weeks and
two days since I was taken ilL I made quite a tearful
scene ior the benefit of Potain's assistant, who didn't
know how to quiet me. For, giving up the puns, cock-
and-bull stories, and other tit-bits with which 1 tickle his
fancy, I began complaining and shedding real tears, with
my nair all down, and sobbing piteously over my childish
griefs, after the manner of little girls. And I must own
that I did it all in cold blood, not believing a word
of it It was just as when I act a part in a play, and
manage to turn pale, and to cry quite in earnest In
short, it seems to me that I should make an astonishing
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PARIS, 1881. 515
actress — but I cough, and have not breath enough left at
present
My father has arrived this morning. All goes well —
only Paul's poor wife feels herself quite put out of counten-
ance, finding an indifference in nim which borders on
dislike. I behaved properly, and rave her a very fine
emerald mamma had given me, ana that I didn't know
what to do with.
I was rather sorry afterwards ; I might have given it to
Dina, who adores jewellery. Basta !
I don't mean to say that papa is tiresome ; on the contrary,
he is a little like me, both mentally and physically (this is
praise) ; but this man will never understand^ me.
Just fancy his planning to take us all to the country for
Easter!
Oh, it's too much, and his indelicacy is too great : to talk
of taking me to Russia in February or March in my state of
health ! You may judge for yourself. But let us overlook
it, and leave the rest 1 No, no ! I who won't hear of going to
the south 1 Oh no, don't let's talk of it any more.
Sunday, December 18th. — In a tdte-d-tete with Julian I
gave vent to all my complaints, and he tried to console me by
advising me to make drawings every day of things that strike
me. Of things that strike me ! And what should strike me
in the surroundings amidst which I live ? Breslau is poor,
but she moves in an eminently artistic sphere ; Marie's best
friend is a musician ; Schaeppi is original, if vulgar ; and then
there's Sara Purser, a painter and philosopher, with whom
you can have discussions on Kant, on life, on the Ego, and
on death, which make you reflect for yourself, and imprint on
the mind what you have read or heard ; all helps her, down to
the quarter she lives in — Les Terries. Our part of the town is
too clean, too monotonous, you never see a creature in rags,
nor a tree that hasn't been trimmed, nor a crooked street.
Then you complain of your wealth ? . . . Not so ; I merely
note that comfort may interfere with artistic development,
and that the surroundings in which we live make half our
individuality.
Wednesday, December 21s£. — To-day I have been out,
wrapped up in furs, with the windows up, and a bear-skin over
my feet, rotain said this morning that I might go out if
there were less wind, and I took proper care. The weather
was splendid, .... as for the precautions !
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516 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
But that isn't the question, it is rather Breslau : " tout
enti&re k sa proie attache." Mv picture for the Salon is
spoilt What have I to show for her picture of this summer ?
This girl is a power ; she is not the only one I admit ; but
we come out of trie same cage, not to say the same nest, and
I foresaw and predicted her gifts, and announced them to you
during my first days of study, ignorant as I then was, very
ignorant. I despise, and have no faith in, myself. I don't
understand why Julian and Tony say what they do. I
am nothing; ; I have nothing in my vitals (Oh, Zola !). Com-
pared to Breslau, I seem to myself like a thin and brittle
cardboard box compared to a richly carved, massive oak
chest I am hopeless about myself, and am convinced that if
I were to talk to the masters about it, they would come to
the same conclusion.
But I mean to persist for all that, and to go on with closed
eyes and arms stretched out, like one about to be engulfed in
an abyss.
Thursday, December 29th. — It is eight days now since I
have written anything ; this will show you that my glorious
existence has been taken up with a little work, and some
calls. Nothing new ; however, when I am well enough I go
out ; I went to try on some dresses, and then for a drive in the
Bois, and to see Julian on Saturday, with mamma and Dina.
And on Sunday I went to church to prevent their saying
that I am at my last gasp, as that charming Bertha tells every-
body.
On the contrary, I am picking up again ; my arms, which
were so thin ten days ago, are getting rounded ; this means
that I am better than before my illness.
If I go on like this for another ten days, I shall have to stop
getting fatter, for I shall just be right, as I don't want to get
ack my rather too pronounced hips of three years ago. Julian,
who came yesterday evening, says that I am much more
graceful as it is. We laughed about it all the evening. I am
painting the portrait of Paul's wife. Yesterday I felt such an
accession of strength, that I wanted to do Dina, Nini, and Irma,
at the same time. Irma is not an ordinary model ; they say
she is the type of the now vanished Grisette ; she is droll and
sentimental, with a strange sort of naiveti amidst her vice.
" When you have become a cocotte " .... I said to her
the other day.
"Oh dear," she answered, "I am not lucky enough for
that!"
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PARIS, 1881. 517
She sits with intelligence ; she does for anything with her
startling pallor, for she may be taken for an innocent young
girl, or an abyss of depravity, like all those young ladies of the
street.
She asked for leave to remain, although there was nothing
for her to do, and spent the afternoon crocneting in front of the
fire.
Friday, December 30£&.— There's been nothing but quarrel-
ling going on all day.
At last, in order to recover from it, I go to Tony's, and
show him the drawing for the portrait of Paul's wife. He de-
clared it to be very original, very original in its arrangement,
and well conceived. Tne sympathetic Fleury showed nimself
delighted to see me restored to health, and after talking very
gaily for a while, we touched on the very grave subject of art,
and spoke of Breslau, amongst other things. ... " She has
certainly a good deal of talent," said he ; " she is highly
gifted."
Ah ! it's impossible for this paper to interpret my feelings!
All the fire and the fever. ... Oh for the power to work
night and day, all the time, all the time, and do something
really good! I know well that he says, that whenever I
choose I can do as much as she ; I know equally well that
he credits me with the same gifts ; but I am ready to cry, I
am ready to die, I am ready to go no matter where, where I
could . . . But could I really ? Ah ! Tony has faith in me,
but I have no faith. ... I am consumed by the desire to do
something good, and I know my incapacity. . . . Here I
must stop. As you believe me implicitly, you might really
seriously believe. ... I have said it in the hope of being
contradicted. . . .
O Lord ! here I am writing all this, and spending my
time in trying to find the most appropriate expressions for
my troubles, while Breslau, not nearly so foolish, draws and
works.
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518
CHAPTER X.
PARIS, NICE, RUSSIA, 1882.
Monday, January 2nd. — My great passion just now is my
painting, I cannot venture to say " my art ; " to speak of art
(and its aspirations or inspirations), one must have made ones
name. Without that, you have the air of a conceited
amateur, or, rather, there is in doing so ... . something
of indelicacy which wounds the better feelings in my nature ;
it is like acknowledging some noble action .... a false
shame, in fact
Wednesday, January 4ttL — Julian spends the evening in
teasing us about our partiality for Tony, and on his for us.
At midnight we take chocolate ; Dina is very gracious ....
for the rest, I quite understand that people should keep their
charms for connoisseurs.
I always dress with special care for the artists, and quite
differently — long gowns, without stays, and draperies. In
society, my figure would not be thought slim enough, nor
my dress sufficiently fashionable; thus all my prettiest
fancies, too extravagant for society, will help me with the
Ministere des Beaux- Arts. ... I am always dreaming of
forming a salon full of eminent people. . . .
Friday, January 6th. — Art, even amongst the humblest
raises the mind, and gives us the feeling of possessing more than
those who do not belong to the sublime brotherhood.
Wednesday, January Wth. — We are giving a soiree to-
morrow, our New Year's Eve. Preparations for it have been
going on for a week; more than two hundred and fifty
invitations have been sent out, for they have been very
much in demand among our friends. As no one has yet
begun to receive, it is quite an event, and I fully believe
that we shall have some very distinguished people. Won't
that be charming ?
fitincelle puts a paragraph in her notes of the Figaro, with
a poem in honour of Mile. Marie, the beauty, the artist, &c.
&c. For that matter, fitincelle is charming; had she never
written a word, I'd still think her the most charming of the
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PARIS, 1882. 519
ugly. She is more seductive than fifty lovely women, with a
sort of Parisian hall-mark, a stamp of personality. Take note
of what I sav, for it is an indescribable something. All the
celebrities, whether men or women, old or young, nave a cer-
tain note in the voice, a certain air which is the same for all,
and which I will call the family air of notoriety.
We shall have the two Coquelins. The elder Coquelin,
Leon's friend, came yesterday to see the drawing-rooms, and
settle about the pieces. G was there, and he bored me
with his connoisseur airs. A little more, and he would have
given advice to Coauelin, who is very agreeable — be it said in
{passing — a good fellow, who does not for one instant make you
eel that embarrassment which so many people feel in the
presence of a stranger of note.
Friday, January 13^. — The two Coquelins were splendid,
and the drawing-room presented a lovely sight, as there were
a good many pretty women — first of all tne ravishing trio, the
Marchioness de Reverseaux, daughter of Janvier de la Motte,
Mme. Thouvenel, and Mme. de Joly; the Countess de
Kessler, they were nearly all beauties .... and, in short, all
"suitable guests," as Tony says, who stayed away, as did
Julian also. Mme. G was enchanted, and ended up by
dancing and waltzing with Count Plater, upon my honour.
There was dinner first
Then, as for artists, there was the brother of Bastien-
Lepage, who was still away. His brother, it's always so,
but on Thursday we are going to see the real one. And
George Bertrand. . . . Last year he painted an admirable
and moving picture entitled Le Vrapeau ; I showed
appreciation ol him in my chronicle, and he sent a very
kind message. I sent him an invitation from "Pauline
Orel!" Pollack presents him to me. It is amusing ; he
pays me great compliments, for though I carefully hid my
studies, Dma has snown some of them to whomsoever she
saw fit. Carrier-Belleuse was languishing beneath my eyes
towards the end of the evening, and looked quite tender and
sentimental as he insisted on the cruelty of the device:
Glorice Cupido.
That youth is capable of becoming very amorous, and
perhaps is so already; but it will pass off; he clearly sees
Olorice Cwpido — and nothing more.
We had supper at three o'clock Gabriel was on my
right, and nearly sixty people stayed. Nini was charming,
lovely, with splendid snoulders, and an exquisite dress.
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520 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Dina, mamma, and aunt, were also beautifully dressed. 1
wore a gown made by Doucet and me jointly, a nearly
faithful reproduction of the Cruche Cass£e of Greuze. Little
loose curls fastened behind to a small chignon, rather high
on the nape. A long chain of Bengal roses disappearing
and sheddmg their petals in the folds of my skirt. The
short, narrowly pleated skirt is made of silk muslin ; the
bodice of satin merveilleux, laced up the front, very wide,
and forming folds at the waist, being made without
Eoint, and a scarf tied askew. A second petticoat of muslin,
ned with satin, open in the front, and looped back, forms
paniers, one of wnich is filled with roses. I was looking
charming. Potain's odious assistant was walking about like
a shadow, in order to catch me, and keep me from
dancing.
Sunday, January 13tL — There is a long article by
fitincelle about our soiree ; but, as it was expected, no one
is satisfied. It compares me to the Cruche Cass£e, and my
{eople are afraid lest it be regarded as an insult at Poltava,
t is too silly ! The article is really very good ; only, as
she had said two days ago that I am one of the prettiest
women in the Russian Empire, she contents herself this
time with describing my dress. Hence comes the disap-
pointment
I am heart and soul in my art I think that I caught the
sacred fire somewhere in Spain, along with my pleurisjr;
from a worker I am beginning to turn into an artist ; it
is a hatching of heavenly things which makes me slightly
mad. ... I compose in the evening and dream of an Ophelia
Potain has promised to take me to Sainte-Anne to see
heads of mad women ; moreover, an Arab, an old Arab,
sitting and singing to a sort of guitar, keeps haunting me,
and I am thinking of doing a large canvas for the next
Salon, a little carnival scene . . . . ; but in order to do that
I must go to Nice. Yes, Naples for the carnival, certainly ;
but, to work out my big undertaking in the open air, I
have my villa at Nice. ... I am saying all this while my
wisn is to remain here.
Satwrday, January 2\st — Mme. C is coining to take
us to see Bastien-Lepage. We find two or three Americans
there, and little Bastien-Lepage, who is small, and very fair,
with hair & la bretonne, a snub nose, and a youth's beard.
All one's notions are quite upset. I adore his painting,
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PARIS, 1882. 521
and it is impossible to regard him as a master. I feel
inclined to treat him as a fellow-comrade, and there hang
his pictures to fill me with admiration, awe, and envy.
There are four or five of them all life-size, and painted m
the open air. They are quite lovely ; one of them repre-
sents a female cowherd of eight or ten years of age in a
field; there is a bare tree with the cow beneath it; the
poetry of it is very impressive, and the eyes of the little
r'rl have an expression of infantine and rustic reverie which
do not know how to describe. He has the air of a good-
natured little man, very self-satisfied .... this Bastien !
I come in to help mamma to receive a large number of
people. That's what it is to give soirees in Paris, you see,
says one of our friends.
Sunday, January 22nd. — The carnival fills all my
thoughts just now, and I am making sketches in crayon.
If I only had talent, what a charming thing it would be
to do.
Friday, January 27th. — Gambetta has fallen, that is to
say, he is no longer minister ; but that matters little in my
opinion.
But just notice how present events show the cowardice
and bad faith of mankind I Those of the Intransigeant
who are attacking Gambetta do not for a moment be-
lieve in all those idiotic accusations about the Dictator-
ship. . . .
Ah 1 I shall always be disgusted by the infamous deeds
which are done daily.
Monday, January SOth. — We will certainly go to the villa
G6ry at mce. As for Saturday, I had a pleasant day.
Bastien, whom I saw last evening at the ball at the Hdtel
Continental, where the Queen presided, and which was given
for the benefit of the Breton Salvage Corps, came and stayed
for more than an hour; I showed him some of my work,
and he gave me advice with flattering severity. For the rest,
he said that I was marvellously gifted. As that had not
the air of a compliment, I felt such a strong movement of
*oy that I was on the point of seizing the good little man
)y the head and embracing him.
Anyhow, I am very gratified at having heard him. He
gave me the same advice as Tony and Julian, and said the
same things. Besides, is he not a pupil of M. Cabanel?
t
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522 MARIE BASHKIRT8EFF.
Every one has his own characteristics, but as regards the
grammar of the art, it must always be sought among what
are called the classics. Neither Bastien nor any one else can
teach his own peculiar qualities ; one can only learn what is to
be learnt, the rest depends upon one's sel£ Mme. de P6ronny
(fitincelle) has come, and I have spent a full quarter of an
hour between this cultured woman and this great artist,
before my fireplace and then under the palm-tree, puffing
myself out with vanity and pleasure. I shall not trouble
myself about the other visitors, whom I have left in the state
drawing-room with mamma.
Nice. — We started at eight o'clock in the evening — Paul,
Dina, myself, Nini, Rosalie, Basile, and Coco. The villa G£ry
is just what I wanted. It is in the open country, and only ten
minutes' walk from the Promenade des Anglais. We have a
terrace, gardens, and a roomy, comfortable house.
We find everything ready, and M. P6coux, the steward,
with bouquets.
I took a tramway ride this evening, which enchanted me ;
there is the gaiety of France and Italy combined without the
Paris mob. As I wrote to Julian, it is as convenient as Paris,
and as picturesque as Granada ; at live metres' distance from
the Promenade des Anglais what costumes, rags, and models,
are to be found, and such tones ! Why go to Spain ? O
Nice ! O South ! O Mediterranean ! O my beloved
country, which has caused me such suffering! my first
joys, and my much greater griefs! my childhood, my
ambitions, my charms 7
Do what I will, everything will always commence there,
and side by side with the sufferings which have darkened my
sixteenth year, there will always be recollections of first youth,
which are, as it were, the finest flowers of life.
Tuesday, February 7th. — I am smarting. Wolff dedicates
ten lines oi extreme fiattery to Mile. Breslau.
However, it is not my fault. One acts according to one's
talents. She is entirely devoted to her art ; but as for me, I
invent gowns for myself, I dream of draperies, of bodices, of
retaliations in society in Nice. I do not mean to say that I
should have her talent if I did as she does ; she follows her
bent and I follow mine. But I feel my wings clipped ; in
fact, I feel my incapacity sufficiently to make me wish to give
up for good and alL Julian told me that I could do just as
much if I would. If I would ? why, in order to have tne will
there must be the power. Those who succeed with / will
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NICE, 1882. 523
are, unknown to themselves, upheld by secret forces which I
lack. And to say that at times I have not only faith in my
coming talent, but that I feel the sacred fire of genius !
misery !
At all events, here nobody is to blame, it is less enraging.
Nothing is so horrible as to say to one's self, "Had it not
been for that person or for this, I might have gained my
object." I think that I do all I can and I attain nothing.
God, grant that I may be mistaken, and that the con-
sciousness of my mediocrity may be all a mistake I
Friday ',' February 10th. — The blow was so severe that I
have spent the last three days in real misery.
1 am no longer going on with riiy large painting, but
am doing simpler and more reasonable things and studies.
I have made a solemn resolution not to lose another
minute and not to make any more vain attempts. But to
concentrate myself. Bastien, Julian, and also the fortunate
Breslau, all recommend me to do so. Yes, Breslau is truly
fortunate, and to be. as much so as she is I would give
unhesitatingly all that is called my good fortune and wealth.
With an income of ten thousand francs to give independence,
and with talent in addition, what more can you want ?
Anyhow, she is awfully fortunate, is that girl ! Every
time that I think of Woln's article I feel how unfortunate
I am ! Yet it is not what is called envy. But I have not
the heart to analyse my feelings, and to find the most
appropriate expressions. . . .
Monday, February 13th. — On Saturday I commenced a
picture : for a whole fortnight I have been on the look-out ;
two or three subjects have attracted my attention, but they
have not progressed beyond the second sitting. It is
always thus when it is not just right . . .
You make up your mind to a subject in order not t©
lose time in researches, and then you feel bound to go on
with it; besides, what is sought rarely succeeds; nor does
it follow that we always succeed when we think we have
hit upon the right tiling; but at least there has been
the pleasure of being captivated by it. How long will
it be before I am convinced that a subject is useless
in unskilful hands ? However, even for simple studies
you must do what pleases you; it is useless to tell
me that the subject need not prepossess me. I began
a picture which rendered me perfectly wretched for tour
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524 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
or five days. I did not venture to give it up, and I had
not the heart to work at it ; after I did give it up I felt
a sense of deliverance. I am making sketches in water-colour
for the first time; every minute is occupied, and I have
found my picture ; for, in addition to minor things, I must
take a big study to Julian. My subject is three street
boys close to a gateway. It looks to me very realistic and
amusing. The blow I received from Wolffs article has
done me good ; I was Crushed and overwhelmed, and the
reaction has made me comprehend things concerning art
which tormented me, because I did not attain them and
even doubted of their existence. This has caused me to
make a healthy effort ; I also begin to understand what I
have read of the struggles, sufferings, &c. &c, of artists;
I used to laugh at them as empty fictioa That famous
will of Breslau, I have had recourse to it, and I see that
in order to obtain those results which I thought fell from
heaven, great efforts must be made. That is to say, I have
made no real effort hitherto. This extreme facility in work
has spoiled me. Breslau obtains fine results, but with
much labour; as for me, when it does not come at once
and of itself I remain stupid. This must be overcome.
I have been trying to compel myself to work up my
sketches and crayon compositions to the requisite finish, and
have succeeded in doing things of which i thought myself
incapable, and which I believed others did by trickery and
almost witchcraft, so difficult is it to see in others faculties
which we do not ourselves possess.
If I could go on working as I have done these few
days past, I should be very happy ! It is not a mere
question of working like a machine, out of being continually
occupied and thinking all the time about one s work, that
is happiness. No preoccupation stands against it And I,
who complain so often, am thanking God for these three
days, at the same time dreading that this state of things
may not last
Everything changes its aspect then ; petty miseries almost
cease to worry ; you are above all that, with a something
radiant in your being, a divine indulgence towards the
vulgar crowa which does not know the secret, changing,
fluctuating, and varied causes of your beatitude, more
fragile than the most fragile flower.
Tuesday, February 14£/t. — Ah ! what enjoyment in ob-
servation we who have read Balzac and who read Zola possess!
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NICE, 1882. 525
Wednesday, February 15th. — The eyes are opened little
by little ; formerly, I used to see only the drawing and
the subject of pictures ; but now .... ah ! now if I could
execute as I can see I should have talent. I see the land-
scape, I see and love the landscape, water, air, and colour —
colour !
Sunday, February 19th. — If you knew my torments!
I struggle against idleness and against that terrible it will
be bad, which prevents me from doing anything. And I
suffer keen remorse for every lost hour. . . .
And why do you not ao rough sketches, and this, that,
and the other? And when I see the drawings in the Vie
moderne, I turn red and pale, and want to do at the first
attempt just as much as these people who have been working
at them for ten years past, not perceiving that one must keep
on at them, even do bad ones, and stul go on, in order to
make good ones at last Ah ! what a terrible and dangerous
moment it is when one quits the regulated and mechanical
work of the studio, and feels the need of becoming pliable and
dividing one's self into portions, so to say, in order to do a
little of everything ; in short to be left to one's own judg-
ment for understanding what is needful, and knowing where
the fault lies. To be conscious of one's condition.
It is a good sign, but diabolically tormenting. This has
continued for several months already, and this constant
struggle would be detestable if it were not for the vague hope
that it may perhaps lead to several months of continuous
work, fruitful, calm, and well-considered, which will open up
new horizons, and then ....
I recollect that two or three years ago .... the fortunate
Breslau passed through the same torments as myself; for
whole months she could not get anything done, and I have
seen her pass some horrible Saturdays for her ; she was ready
to take up sculpture out of sheer despair.
Monday, February 27th. — After a thousand perplexities I
have spoilt my canvas. The boys did not sit, so attributing
these failures to my incapacity, I commenced again and
again, and at last .... it is very fortunate ; those dreadful
monsters moved, laughed, cried, and fought ... I am
honestly doing a study, in order to be free from the torture of
painting pictures ; all that I undertook became at the end of
twenty-four hours either stiff, or vulgar, or clumsy, or pre-
tentious, after having pleased me very much. . . . Besides, it
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526 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
is better to do simple studies ; I am at such a critical period,
and how much lost time — Biarritz, illness, and a montn here
already !
If I had not wished so madly to paint pictures, or rather
if I had not been knocked over by Wolff's lines in favour of
Breslau. . . . There is only one thing which can set me up
again, it is to produce work which will be acknowledged to be
very good ; but there. . . .
Paris, Thursday, April 20th. — Well, I don't feel as I did
after Spain; I am not enchanted at seeing Paris again,
only satisfied. . . . Besides, I cannot account for any feeling,
I am so disturbed about my work. I tremble to think what
will be said, and I am crushed by the remembrance of
Breslau, who is treated by the public as a full-fledged artist.
I went to see Julian yesterday (we reached Paris yesterday
morning), and he no longer treats me as a serious worker —
brilliant, yes, but no depth, no will ; he would have desired
more — he had hoped better things. All that, in the course of
conversation, made me feel very bad. I amwaiting for him
to see my work from Nice, and no longer hope for anything
good.
I have painted Th6rese, a child of six years old, going for
provisions, m a country lane, life size ; then an old man at his
window, beside a pot of rose carnations, life size ; then a boy
carrying a sack, life size half length ; two small landscapes ;
three sailors, five or six little studies, and some crayon
drawings ; also two unfinished pastels and etchings in my
album.
I do not know whether they are good or horrible, and all
these fears send fire, as it were, all over me.
Saturday, April 22nd. — No, look you ; what I should want
in order to live would be the possession of great talent I
shall never be happy like the rest of the world ; to be cele-
brated and to be loved, as Balzac says, that is happiness ! . . .
And yet to be loved is only an accessory, or rather the
natural result, of being celebrated. Breslau is lean, crooked,
and worn out ; she has an interesting head, but no charm ;
she is masculine and solitary!
She will never be anythmg of a woman unless she has
genius ; but if I had her talent I should be like no one else
in Paris. . . . That must come. ... In the mad
desire that it may come I seem to see a sort of hope that
it will come.
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PARIS, 1882. 527
This absence, this interrupted work .... no longer to
have advice and encouragement .... it is bewildering I . . .
You feel as though you had returned from China, you are
no longer up to date. Ah! .... I think I like nothing
as I do painting, which, in my eyes, must give me all other
kinds of happiness ! False vocation, false disposition, false
hope ! This morning I went to the Louvre, and behold, I am
slandering myself; one ought to be able to reproduce when
one sees as 1 do. Formerly I used to have the confidence
of ignorance, but my eyes have been opened for some time
past. This morning it was Paul Veronese's turn to appear
to me in all his splendour and magnificence — this unheard-
of richness of tones ! How shall I explain that these
splendours have hitherto seemed to me great, dingy,
grey and flat canvases? . . . What I did not see, I see
now. . . . The celebrated pictures, which I looked at
simply out of natural respect, charm and fascinate me ;
I feel the delicacies of colouring; in short, I appreciate
colour.
One of Ruysdael's landscapes has made me return to it
twice. Some months ago I saw nothing in it of what I see
this morning — of real atmosphere .... of space ; in short, it
is not painting, it is Nature itself. Well, that I now see all
those beauties, which I did not see before, is owing to my
trained eye ; it may well be that the same phenomenon is
produced in the hand.
I do not mean to say that until I went to Spain I was
absolutely wooden, but that journey certainly removed a veil
from my eyes. . . . Well, then, I must now work at the
studio — I have done enough independent things to render my
hand supple for the moment ; now my technique must
become first-rate, and I will paint a picture. . . .
Sunday, April 23rd. — I have just spent some minutes
before the stuaies I made at Nice. Even the thought that
perhaps some good quality may be found in them sends a
shiver down my back ; for Tony, Julian, and Bastien, seem
to me so mean, and of so little account compared with the
immense effect that their words can produce on me.
There are no true anxieties, or true happinesses, except
in things which concern our fame. What a grand expression !
I cannot settle myself. On Monday I will go to the
studio to set to work again. It looks as if I had been lazy for
months, and as if some misfortune had happened to me.
I have not done as well as I could ; I was in a hurry to get
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528 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
back to Paris. ... I have come a cropper again ! These
thoughts pass through my head like heavy clouds, and fill
me with anguish, making me feel hot and cold every five
minutes. ...
The sky is grey and stormy, it rains, and the wind is
scorching; outside, the same state as within .... it is a
physical effect then !
But I had something else to say — some reflections, which
I have forgotten, about love, owing to what I have read this
morning.
Love is the constant theme. To be loved by a man suf-
ficiently inferior to yourself to look upon you as a goddess
from heaven, would have a certain charm. . . . Some one
who acknowledges his inferiority. To know that with a look
you pour out treasures of delight ! . . . . There is a charitable
side to this, which flatters our feelings of generosity.
Tuesday, April 25th. — My own disquietude was enough,
and I had no need to see the anxious faces of my relatives
looking at me to see if I felt any emotion. In short, this is
what Tony said : — Dina's costume in her disguise, "Very good,
very gooa"; the man on the sea-shore, "very good, too";
then Therese's head, "Not at all bad, but the tone of the
landscape in respect to the dress is not correct " ; the little
landscape, " Very good " ; the old man's dress, " Very good " ;
the old man himself, " Well drawn, but not simple enough
and not enough something else ; in short, there's good work in
them." ... " Well," you will say, "you ought to be satisfied.'
Ah ! he also added that I needed to make a very carefully
worked out study; that he would watch my work closely,
and be at my disposal whenever I have recourse to him.
Well, they afterwards made him take a cup of broth in
the dining-room expecting a tirade upon my enormous
talent. But as he was expected by the commission of the
Salon at five o'clock (that's why he chose this day to come
here, for we are quite close to the Salon), and being pressed
for time, he contented himself with thanks for the glass of
Marsala and the broth, and took himself off speedily.
Then my aunt said that he is a fool, and knows nothing ;
mamma adaed that it is really astonishing that I should be so
cast down. It is true that I looked worried through their
meddling anxiety. ... It seems that all mothers are the
same ; but it is none the less irritating on that account In
short, I was reduced to the weeping-point, and came to pour
out the fulness of my poor heart here.
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PARIS, 1882. 529
I ought to be satisfied . . . No, I am almost crushed,
and mamma is nearly right . . . There is not sufficient
reason for it. . . . I wisned that man to say to me — to
!>revent my utter collapse, it would have been necessary
or him to say — " Very good I you have hit it this time;
it is excellent ; yoiL are as powerful as Breslavu, and have
more good points than she has"
Anything less than the above could not satisfy me or
even lift me out of the despair I have been in for a year
East on account of my painting. True, he did say, when
e saw the man on the sea-shore, that it is " Very good,
very good" ; then pointing out the tone of the drapery
in relation to the horizon, said that too is " Very good " ;
also the little landscape which he looked at several times:
and Dina's pastel ana mine, which is partly good; and
Th6rese's head, which is "Not at all bad." What do I
want more ? I don't know. . . . And in the first place
he was too hurried; it seems to me that he did not look
at them enough. ... I should have liked him to pay
me a long compliment upon my extraordinary gifts.
This good so often expressed fails to satisfy me while
I have still on my heart tne very good accorded to Breslau,
for a little picture that she painted in Brittany two years
ago!
And when he says the same thing to me for my little
picture painted at Nice, it does not seem to have the same
value. Why ? Before I started for Nice, he said to me
that Breslau's fisherwoman was very good. Now that this
same fisherwoman is received under No. 3, he tells me only
that it is not bad. In short .... I am not satisfied. Why ?
Firstly, because my family based such extraordinary hopes
on those few studies that only the absurdest compliments
would have satisfied them ; ana then there's the effect of the
Spring on the nervea When I get thus over-excited, my arm
burns above the elbow — it is rather funny. Wise doctors
please explain !
Saturday, April 29th. — I am not an artist ; I have drawn
without any difficulty just as I do everything, but I cannot
. . . Yet when I was a child of three years old I drew pro-
files in chalk on the whist-tables in the country, and then
ever after .... you would have sworn that it was my
vocation .... and see what it comes to ! . . . However,
I have nothing to say except that these are trying
moments to pass through ; I collapse. Yet, after all, what
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530 MAEIB BASRKIRTSEFF.
has happened ? why, nothing .... Breslau has been working
much longer than I have — almost twice as long ....
Admitting that I am as gifted as she, everything is quite
natural ; for I have been painting for three years, and she —
well, she has been painting for more than five.
Sunday, April 30th. — I have spent all the morning var-
nishing with Villevielle, Alice, and Webb. In black, very
becoming. I am amused to see that I am not unknown
to society in the Paris world. Carolus Duran came to talk
to me — very kind — he is a charming man. Breslau's pic-
ture is quite skied, and the effect is deplorable. I was so
disquieted at the success which she appeared certain to
obtain that it is a great consolation ; 1 won't conceal it
Her friends came with tears in their eyes to ask my
opinion ; I told them that it was not a fine picture, but
that they ought to have riven her a better place.
The outcome of this brilliant day was my conversation
with Julian, in which he reproached me with wasting my
talents, with not fulfilling the splendid promises . . . . &c
In short, he thinks I am submerged ; so do I, and we are
going to try to fish me up again; I told him sincerely
that I am quite aware of this deplorable condition, that it
disheartens me and that I think I am done for ; he reminded
me how powerful I was, and that a sketch of mine, which
he possesses, attracts the attention of every one who goes
to see him .... and so on. Ah ! mon Dieu, get me out
of this, get me out of this ! take me ; I was going to say
that .... God was very good to me in not suffering me
to be killed outright by fireslau, at all events to-day. I
do not know how to express myself so as to avoid the
appearance of mean sentiments. If the picture had been
as I expected, it would have made an end of me .... in
the deplorable condition of my work. ... I have not for one
moment wished that it should be bad, that would be igno-
ble ; but I dreaded so much to see a formidable success ;
I was so nervous when opening the papers that God has
perhaps taken compassion upon me. . . .
Tuesday, May 9th. — Tony and Julian dined here to-day.
I put on a fantastic dress, and we did not separate until
half-past eleven. Julian was very droll after the champagne,
and Tony very handsome, very sedate, and very calm, with his
fine worn-looting head. You would wish to move that soul,
with its air of tender melancholy, all in half light.
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PARIS, 1882. 531
I cannot imagine the professor carried away by violent
emotions ; he is calm and logical, and if it were a question
of the heart he would show you their cause and origin
with perfect composure, just as if he were explaining the
relative merits of a picture. In conclusion, and — as he says —
to sum up, he is charming. . . .
The portrait of a young girl, by Sargent, haunts me.
It is ravishing ! It is an exquisite painting, that one
would willingly place in a gallery with works of Van Dyck
and Velasquez.
Satwrday, May 20th. — Ah, I am disheartened ! What
have I been doing since I came to Paris? I am not
even eccentric any longer. And what have I done in
Italy? On one occasion I allowed myself to be kissed in
secret by that stupid A . Well! and after that?
I am disgusted with it! But plenty of young girls have
done it, and do it, and no one says horrid things about
them. I assure you that when I hear scraps of the things
that have been said about us and about me, I feel quite
numbed, it is so overwhelming.
The law-suit has been disastrous, but it has come to an
end. Then something else springs up. They attack me!
.... And to think that while I am quiet and alone in my
room — surrounded by my books, after working for eight or
ten hours, to think wnat people may say about me —
that I am morally dragged from this deep retirement,
stripped, remarked upon, distorted : that thoughts and
actions are attributed to me ! . . . They say I am twenty-
five, and confer upon me a mortifying independence which I
have never had. Oh dear ! it makes my arms fall at my
side, and I feel inclined to cry.
Yesterday we went to the Salon with G , the
brother of Bastien, and Beaumetz. Bastien-Lepage is going
to paint a picture of a little peasant looking at a rainbow.
It will be sublime, I can tell you. What talent, what
talent!
Monday, May 22nd. — I fully believe that I shall never
love .... but one .... and he, it is probable, will
never love me. Julian is right: to take my revenge I
should need a crushing superiority .... to make a
tremendous match with a leader of society — rich and well
kaown ! How splendid it would be ! Of else to have
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532 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
such a talent as Bastien- Lepage, which would bring all the
eyes of Paris upon me ! I am delightful : I speak of it
as though it might really happen to me! I have nothing
but misfortunes. God, let me have my revenge at
last! ... I shall be so considerate for all that
suffer. . . .
TJtursday, May 25th. — This morning we have been to see
Carolus Duraa What an astounding and charming creature 1
He is rather laughed at for doing something of every-
thing. . . . What does that matter? He snoots very
well, rides, dances, plays the piano, the organ, and the guitar,
and sings. It is said that ne dances badly ; but as regards
everything else, he does it with wonderful grace. He
thinks himself a Spaniard and a Velasquez. He has a
very attractive person, engrossing conversation, and there is
in his whole manner something so good-natured, so much
self-satisfaction, so much ease and pleasure in admiring his
own dear self, that no one can object — quite the contrary.
And if you smile occasionally, you are not the less conquered,
especially if you think of all those whom we swallow who
have not a quarter of his ability.
He is in such deadly earnest about himself. But sup-
Eosing we were in his place, who amongst us would not
ave his head slightly turned?
This morning his studio was never empty. The light,
coming from the roof, gives a sort of old-world look to
the very modern studio. The visitors have a formal and
admiring air, and Carolus plays the master with a counterfeit
air of Faure in Don Juan or Rigoletto. He goes from group
to group, with his moustache curled, his leg stretched out,
his oeard diabolical, and his hair inspired, and from time
to time hurries off to scribble somethmg at his desk, with
haggard looks, now and then rubbing his hand on his fore-
heaa, as though to keep down his genius. He is exagge-
rated, that's plain enougn ; but I am always charmed when
any one poses as an interesting personality, which makes
you think of romantic days, which have passed away.
This mixture of music, brush, and sword, is very amusing ;
and if in these days it makes people laugh, so much the
worse for those who laugh ! Carolus Duran is right —
the more so as his talent justifies his attitude and his
pretensions.
And then he is charming with all women, they say, and
says pleasing trifles.
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PARIS, 1882. 533
" What did you see to admire at the Salon the other day ? "
I asked him.
" You were there ; what else was there to look at ? " . . .
Or again, when I was lamenting about painting. . . .
" Ah ! art is terrible ! . . . You would like it to come to
your feet, like men prostrated in the dust. Well, no 1 it resists
you, and you adore it."
Attitudiniser, comedian, anything you like ! I will not
conceal the fact that I detest dull people, and so much the
worse for those who only see tne comic side of these
exceptional natures, which are charming, in spite of their
acting and attitudes. You will adduce, on the other hand,
persons of great talent, who are modest and retiring ; ah I so
much the worse for them and for us !
When heaven gratifies you with all its gifts, you are an
incomplete creature if vou remain in your corner, instead
of taking advantage of your true worth to make a little
display, as vulgar fools term it.
Friday, May 26th. — The rewards bestowed are disgusting ;
that gained by Zilhardt is one of the best deserved. But
there are others, it is sickening, and makes one very sad !
It would seem as though artists ought to be more con-
scientious and more honourable than other men. Well, it is
not so at all, and I am vexed at it.
Sunday, May 28th. — The Duchess de Fitz-James called
to say that she would take us this evening to her daughter-
in-law's. There was a ball. Mamma declares that the
duchess is the most amiable person in the world. They see
one another pretty frequently, but I do not know anything for
certain. So we are going to fetch her, and arrive all together.
Everything is most elegant : real society, real young ladies,
ravishing and fresh ; real toilettes. The old duchess has I
don't know how many nephews and grand-children. The
names I heard mentioned are those of the best known and most
aristocratic people, and the few persons with whom I am ac-
quainted are the most elegant. As to me, enchanted as I was
to find myself in this drawing-room, I thought all the time
about a pastel which I had done in the morning, and which
haunted me as a bad one.
Besides, one cannot escape like that. ... I should want at
least two months of society to captivate me with it. But do
you think that that really amuses me ? ... Is it not rather
stupid, hollow, and dull ? And to think that there are people
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634 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
who live only for it 1 For my part, I should like it occasionally ;
just enough to be in the current, for instance, as celebrities do
who go into it only for relaxation ; but enough, however, not
to have the air of a Hottentot, or a dweller in the moon.
Monday, May 29th. — Yesterday we went to the Bois with
Adeline, who says that we are fairly launched in the most
aristocratic society of Paris, and to-day we are paying visits to
the Queen, the two Duchesses de Fitz-James, tne Countess de
furenne, Mine, de Briey, and, lastly, to the American.
I saw Julian this morning ; he thinks the large pastel of
Dina is very good.
But the question is about a large picture for next year ; but
Julian is not taken with the idea, being too much of a
Parisian to enter into this conception. As for me, I am very
enthusiastic about it, and do not venture to say so, for only
those who have talent may be enthusiastic or excited about a
subject. On my part, it would be pretentious and ridiculous.
I had thought of an episode in the carnival, and I give it
up. It would only be a display of colour. ... I feel
deeply what I want to do; I go into it heart and soul,
ana for months already — in fact, nearly two years. ... I do
not know if I shall be strong enough this winter to do it well.
. . . Then so much the worse, for I shall produce a mediocre
painting, but that will have all the qualities of truth, emotion,
and feeling. It is impossible to do a thing badly that tills
your whole soul, especially when you draw welL ... In short
it is the scene when Joseph of Arimathea has buried the body
of Jesus, and the stone has been rolled before the sepulchre ;
every one has gone, night falls, and Mary Magdalen and the
other Mary remain, alone, seated in front of the sepulchre.
It is one of the finest moments of the sublime drama, and
one of the least hackneyed.
There is in it a greatness, a simplicity something appalling,
pathetic, and human. An indescribable and fearfuf calm ;
the exhaustion of grief in the two poor women. . . . The
material side remains to be studied. . . .
Saturday, June 3rd. — The competition is decided ; it is
quite a joke, there are only two classed, and they are the
worst ; no medals ; I think the professors are laughing at us.
From three to five o'clock we are collecting on the great
staircase of the Salon ; I look charming in a Louis XV. oress,
pale rose colour with moss-coloured velvet. There are plenty
of people — Queen Isabel, who is very gracious to me ; then
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PARI8, 1882. 535
some friends, and the sympathetic American, who gives twenty
francs. Furthermore, all those who pass give me something.
When I am not worried, there is something pleasing about
me which is attractive. Three young artists wno had passed
rather quickly consulted together after looking at me, and then
one of them returned to give me forty sous. It was very
nice, for the collectors are usually avoided, and one runs as
quickly as possible when one is compelled to pass through
their ranks. At five o'clock I was Avith the duchess; sne
took us to Viscountess de Janz£, who has an hotel filled with
curiosities, and who is one of the queens of Paris, as Balzac
said. Afterwards to the Bois witn the Duchess de Fitz-
James and her grand-daughter Mile, de Charette.
Thursday, June 8th. — It is more than four o'clock ; it is
broad daylight I close the shutters hermetically to make
myself artificial darkness, while the blue blouses of the
workmen are passing in the street as they are going already
to their work Poor fellows ! It rains before five o'clock in
the morning ! these poor people are working hard while we
moan over our miseries in lace from Doucet's ! What a
vulgar commonplace I have just written. Every one suffers in
his own sphere and crumbles, and every one has good reasons
for doing so. I, at the present time, complain of nothing, for
if I do not possess talent, no one is to blame for it. I never
complain except about things that are unjust, unnatural,
detestable, as so many things in the past .... and in the
present still; though, it is true, this isolation may be beneficial
m perhaps leading me to develop talent. Fortunate Carolus
Duran, who is a celebrity, and wno thinks himself the most
sublime artist of all times !
I want to go to Brittany, and work there.
Tuesday, June 20th. — Ah, well ! nothing new. An inter-
change of visits and painting .... and Spain. Ah ! Spain,
it is one of Th6ophile Gautier's books which has caused all
that Is it possible ? What ! I have been to Toledo, Burgos,
Cordova, Seville, and Granada ! Granada I What ! I have
visited these countries whose very names it is an honour to
utter ; eh, well ! it is delirium. To return there 1 To see
those marvels again ! To return alone or with some of one's
fellow-comrades; have I not suffered enough through going
there with my relatives I poetry I O painting ! O Spain !
Ah ! how short life is ! Ah 1 how unfortunate one is to live
so little! For to live in Paris is only the starting-point of
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536 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
everything. But to go on those sublime travels — travels of
connoisseurs, of artists ! Six months in Spain, in Italy ! Italy,
sacred land ; divine, incomparable Rome 1 It makes my head
swim.
Ah ! how women are to be pitied ; men are at least free.
Absolute independence in every-day life, liberty to come and
go, to go out, to dine at an inn or at home, to walk to the
Bois or the cafe ; this liberty is half the battle in acquiring
talent, and three parts of every-day happiness.
But you will say, " Why don't you, superior woman as you
are, seize this liberty ? "
It is impossible, for the woman who emancipates herself
thus, if young and pretty, is almost tabooed; she becomes
singular, conspicuous, ana cranky ; she is censured, and is,
consequently, less free than when respecting those absurd
customs.
So there is nothing to be done but deplore my sex, and
come back to dreams of Italy and Spain. 6ranada I Gigantic
vegetation ! pure sky, brooks, oleanders, sun, shade, peace,
calm, harmony, poetry !
Wednesday, June 2lst. — It is all scratched out, and I have
even given away the canvas so as not to see it. That is
killing. O painting ; I do not attain to it. But directly after
destroying what one has finished, there is a feeling of comfort,
freedom, and readiness to recommence. The studio in which
I work is lent to Mile. Loshooths by an American named
Chadwick, who arrived to-day, and we restore her temple to
her.
Thursday, June 22nd. — This h6tel has so pleased me that
1 was quite silly about it, and as apartments were already
engaged, I was mad at not being able to rent the h6tel,
30, Rue Amp&re, which seemed to promise me complete
happiness.
I have a whole floor, with studio and balcony. The
ladies on the first floor, below the drawing-rooms. A garden
for painting in the open air without gomg out. In short,
it was too lovely — it would never happen. I was ready to
pay a premium of five thousand francs to the proprietor
of the apartments. And lo! it is done, and without a
premium: we can have the hdtel, and now I have quite
cooled down. I find it a long way off, the studio not so
very large, and dear besides, and so I am vexed — that is to
say, vexed at leaving the Champs-filys^es. In short, as
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PARI8, 1882. 537
regards living there, I had only one dream — the Avenue de
Villiers, the nope of artistic surroundings, and of becoming
acquainted with artists. Now, this part of my dreams is
realised. Well ! now I am worried with the idea that if I
gain medals I shall be indebted for them to friends. I must
also add that I have stamped with rage because I had no
one to whom I could show my drawings and paintings ; in
short, to confess the truth, because my talent was ignored
by artists; now I have the artists, but no longer anything
for them to see. This evening at five o'clock we went to
see Bastien-Lepage's sketches; he is in London, but his
brother fimile Sid the honours of the studio. I had
brought Brisbane and L — ■ — , so that we spent a charming
hour, laughing, talking, making sketches, and everything
was so proper and so pleasant If I had heard all that
about Breslau I should nave been lamenting my fate and
envying her. Now I have what I wanted, does it give me
talent?
Friday. June 23rd. — At five o'clock L , Dina, and I
are with Emile Bastien, who sits to us. I paint him on
a little panel, No. 3 or 4, I think.
/ am painting on the real Bastieris own palette, with his
colours and brush, in his studio, and with his brother as
model.
However, it is a dream, and a childish superstition ;
the little Swede wanted to touch his palette. I nave kept
some of his old colour, and my hand trembled, and we
laughed.
Satwrday, June 2Uh. — It is done. We have got the
hdteL I am heart-broken: to leave the Champs-Elys6es,
without reckoning habit ; this affects me just like a losa
However, it consists of vast basements, with kitchen and
billiard-room. The ground floor, raised ten steps, has a
vestibule: then, having passed a fine glass door, you enter
an ante-chamber, in winch is the staircase leading to the
other floors ; on the right is a room turned into a salon
by making a door, and joining this room to a little tiny
room, opening into the garden ; a dining-room and a garden,
with a carriage drive, and with steps leading into it from
the drawing-room and dining-room.
On the first floor there are five bed-rooms, with dressing-
rooms and a bath-room. The second floor is mine, and
consists of an ante-room, two bed-rooms, a library, a studio,
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538 MARIjS BASHKIRTSEFF.
and a lumber-room. The studio and the library are con-
nected by an immense aperture, fourteen yards long by
eight broad.
The light is magnificent, from three sides and from the
top. In snort, for a hired hdtel I cannot imagine one that
would suit me better. Well, what then ? Why, it seems
to me a long way off, it is ten minutes' drive from
the Madeleine, going by the Boulevard Malesherbes. In
fact, it is 30, Rue Ampere, at the corner of the Rue Bre-
montier, and the house is visible from the Avenue de Villiers.
Well, what would you ? There's the moving, which is
most depressing; and there is leaving these apartments
where I nave been so quiet . . .
Ah ! so much the worse ! it is done now ; yes, signed at
the notary's.
Friday, June 30th. — I can't settle down, I wander about
. . . . ana do nothing! There's the rub ! The other
day I discussed that point with Julian ; he says that one
way or another I have done nothing for a year and a
half, save a month's work by fits and starts, and then
nothing at all!
No continuance, no regularity, no real energy! It is
true. I have not stuck to it ; I ought to have conquered
my work by doing a study every week ; whereas, instead
of that, I have been looking after fifty different things, and
when anything pleases me I am disheartened because I am
not able to do it. I have tried to go back to the studio,
and I could not do so. Shall I be able to work by my-
self ? I am confused, and no longer know where to go or
what to do. I have not the strength to make a simple
study; I must always be undertaking too much, and as I
cannot get through it I am plunged in despair. And now I
am in a state of nervous exhaustion. . . . And, after all, I shall
never paint; I have never, never, never been able to do a
good piece of painting. For three years I have been painting
.... I have lost half the time, certainly ; but that is all the
same. ... In short, I am out of breath; I must have
the courage and will to begin again, it will come back by
degrees. I will go back. . . . No, nothing but a bifj wave
can set me afloat again. . . . And I fear that this big
wave can be nothing else but a series of patient efforts. . . .
But then comes the terrible conviction that I shall not be
able to do it, that I shall never paint
Then go in for modelling ?
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PARIS, 1882. 539
"You will come back just the same to painting, but
still more weakened ..."
And then ? then it is better to die.
Wednesday, July 12th. — I am preparing my famous pic-
ture, which is going to be very difficult to paint. I snail
have to find a landscape of the kind that I imagine ....
and the tomb excavated in the rock. ... I should like
to be able to do it nearer Paris, at Capri, that is quite
the East, and not so far off ; any rock will do. But a real
tomb will be needed ; there must be some at Algeria, and
especially at Jerusalem; any Jewish tomb hollowed out
in the rock. And the models ? Oh ! there I should have
splendid ones with real costumes. Julian says it is absurd.
" It is easy to understand/' he says, " that masters, those
who know all about it, should go to paint their pictures
on the spot, for they go to seek the only thing they lack —
local colouring and absolute truth ; whereas I lack so
much ! " Well, but that seems to me exactly what I ought
to look for, for I shall obtain no success except by being
truthful; why, then, does he want me to forego that local
colouring, I who can have nothing or next to nothing
besides ? What force will this picture have if it is painted
at Saint-Germain with Jews irom Batignolles, ana with
made-up costumes? . . . Whereas there I snail find genuine,
worn old clothes, and natural effects which cannot be
made to order. But the time lost in travelling: a
fortnight to go, and a fortnight to get settled — a
month altogether. I shall start on the 15th of September
and arrive on the 22nd: on the 10th of October I shall
be able to commence; I give myself three months ....
a week to settle down and sketch, a week to prepare. On
the 24th of October I shall begin to paint, ana on the 1st
of November the chief head will be done. The body will
take me up to the 10th of November ; on the 11th I shall
commence the other figure, which will take ten days. The
27th, 28th, 29th, and 30th of November will be employed
in painting the outlines. I give myself ten days more for
the background, which brings me to the 10th of December.
Note that I have reckoned for everything nearly double the
time which it is likely I shall give to it.
Tuesday, July 25tli. — A charming evening, in which
everybody is at ease ; quiet and amusing conversation,
but seemingly melting away in solemn and penetrating
music. Only not a word is said to me about art. Fortu-
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540 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
nately before dinner Julian went up to the studio to have
another look at the sketches, and the large panel on which
I have sketched the figure in crayon and pastel
That is called looking for one's painting. Well, doubt-
less, for this one pleases me, whereas I could not look
for last year's, which had no attraction for me.
Oh ! if I could do it well ! Julian quite enters into my
idea; I did not think (and I was very wrong) that he
would enter so deeply into the beauty of the scene. Yes,
it is true. One ought to make something terrible of it
in its calmness and desolation, its profound desolation
. . . . It is the end of all things ; the woman there
is more than an expression of sorrow ; she is a mighty
drama, complete and terrible. It is the stupefaction of a
soul in which there is nothing left .... And taking
her antecedents into consideration, there is something so
human, so interesting, so majestic, so enthralling, that you
% feel, as it were, a thrill pass through your hair.
And shall I not do it well ? When it depends upon
myself? It is something which I can create witn my hands,
and yet my ardent will, tenacious and inflexible, will not
suffice. Will the wild, the passionate desire of sharing
with others the emotion I feel oe insufficient ? Come, come,
how can I doubt it ? Something fills my head, my heart,
my soul, my eyes, and shall I not overcome material diffi-
culties ? . . . I feel myself capable of everything. It
is only that if I am ill. . . . I will pray to God every
day to save me from that.
Shall my hand be powerless to express what my head
commands ? . . . Surely not !
Ah ! God, I fall on my knees and beg Thee not to op-
r>se this happiness. In ail humility, prostrated in the dust
beg Thee to ... . not even to help me, but only to allow
me to work without too many obstacles.
Thursday, July 27th; Friday, 28th; Saturday, 29tL
— It seems impossible, however, to paint this picture en-
tirely out of doors. The effect is not of broad day-
light, and the evening lasts barely an hour. So I shall not
be able to copy it, as one does in ordinary paintings, as
Bastien-Lepage does, and as all artists do who work in the
open air. An ! I am now touching upon difficulties too
great for me to overcome. Well, never mind ! I will do
it in Algeria as best I can, and then if there is anything
to be done over again .... or even if it must be
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PARIS, 1882. 541
recommenced .... I shall at all events have brought
the first draft back with me.
Sunday, July 30th ; Monday, 31st — RobertFleury came this
evening, and we had a discussion about the picture ....
and about work in general I do not work m a satisfactory
manner. For two years I have had no continuity of ideas,
and so I am never able to pursue a study to the end.
That is very true. ... He says it in order to prove to
me that I make as much progress as possible considering
the manner in which I work, and that the other young
people work longer and better. Nothing is so effectual
as perseverance and continuity ; whereas a good week now
and then, followed by idleness, goes for little, and does
not allow of progress. But, it's true, I was ill, travelling,
and without a studio. . . . Now I have everything, and if
I do not set to work I must be worthless.
The picture is a good one ; I will do it well This week
my painting has been bold, but .... to rid me of my
despair he would have to say something more exciting; in
fact, that I am as powerful as . . . one of the most
powerful; that I can do whatever I choose, that . . .
And he tells me, when I complain, that it is absurd, and
that he has never seen any one do more in so short a time.
Four years ! then he tells me that the most gifted or the
most fortunate do not succeed in less than seven, eight, or
even ten years. Oh, it's too bad !
There are moments in which I could dash my brains
out. Rhetoric is of no use. I must produce something
which will make them leap with astonishment, nothing
else will restore my peace. . . .
Monday, August 7th. — The street ! Returning from Robert
Fleury's we walked through the avenues which surround
l'Arc de Triomphe ; it was about half-past six — a summer's
evening ; porters, children, errand-boys, workmen, and women,
all at their doors or on the public seats, or chatting in
front of the wine-shops.
Ah, what admirable pictures there were — really admir-
able ! Far be it from me to aim chiefly at a parody of
truth, that is what vulgar people do; but in this life, in
this truth there are admirable thmgs. The greatest masters
are great only by truth.
1 came in marvelling at the streets ; yes, and those who
jeer at what they call naturalism do not know what it is,
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542 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
and are foola It consists in seizing Nature in the act, in
knowing what to choose and seizing it. The power of
selection makes the artist
My portrait will be indubitably commonplace. I am
seated in a large arm-chair in a white muslin dress half-
low. The position is bright enough ; I seem to be talking,
and am full-face. It is very hackneyed.
To return to the street. . . . This mine might be
explored. I should not wish to meddle with the country ;
Bastien-Lepage reigns supreme there; but for the street
there has been hitherto no ... . Bastien. And in our
garden one can paint almost anything.
Tuesday, August' 8th. — Mv head is rather disturbed by
Daudet's Rois en Exit; I nad read it before, but am be-
ginning it again. There are such exquisite pages in it, a
fineness of analysis, a clearness of expression which charms
me, things which bring tears to my eyes. . .
Mine is not a life ; when I am not working everything
leaves me ; while painting I imagine that I am weaving my
good fortune ; when I am inactive everything is at a standstill ;
there is night and silence.
Wednesday, August 9th. — A sitting ; then Robert Fleury
comes to dinner. I show him a sketch done this morning
of a rag- woman whom I stopped as she was passing. Tonv
R. F. says that it is good. She is before me, and I look
at her. Tony says do not do any more to it, though it is
scarcely sketched in, but make another very finished picture
from it. When by chance I do anything passable I am as
joyous as a child.
I am delighted with myself.
Thursday, August 10th. — That poor Tony has rubbed out
the left hand at the end of the sitting. Though one may
be an Academician, and have received the medal of honour,
one is none the less subject .... and first of all he wanted
to do something very excellent; he told me that he had
almost a nightmare and a bad headache because it didn't
seem to come right at first
How I sympathise with these troubles that I know so
thoroughly .... and of which no one can form an idea
who is not of the fraternity.
He writes a journal every evening just as I do ; what
do you think he can say in it about me? He thinks that
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PARIS, 1882. 543
Breslau's laurels prevent me from sleeping. . . . But he
knows to what a degree I recognise my inferiority. ... It
is true that now I talk of my picture, and even that seems to
me a presumption ! It is only by hearing other nobodies
say : " My sketch, my picture," &c., that I nave dared ....
and if it appears ridiculous to me, it is because I
should prize so highly the right of saying it openly, and
do not want to see it debased or lowered by too familiar
and disproportionate usage. You understand me ; do you
not?
Sunday , August 13th. — It is three o'clock in the morning ;
I cannot sleep. This evening I showed Tony a study of a
rag-woman, which he thinks passable, and a new sketch of
the picture, which he thinks very good. However, the sketch
is not new; it is like the very first which I tore up, and
have done over again. I think that things ought to be
comprehended at the first glance, especially thmgs which
strike you and take possession of you so completely. R F.
is right ; this picture is comparatively easy to do, because
it is not cut up with details, since the action passes
between the lights ; the silhouettes are detached in shadow.
Everything, be it understood, everything consists in tho-
roughly seizing the relations of sky, figures, and land.
And then, above all, I must give the poetry of the
moment, the profound and terrible desolation of the event
which has just occurred.
Now he thinks that I have found it, that the attitudes
are deeply felt, and poignant; all depends now in render-
ing it as I feel it. If you succeed in hitting exactly the
tones, the relations of one thing with another, it may be
altogether a very fine picture.
Yes, that is all; on one side a kind of fear, and on the
other a frenzy.
That depends wpon me.
And then I went to bed at midnight, not thinking any
more about the day's discussions concerning naturalism,
painting, and the street! No longer thinking of anything
except this picture, which takes such huge proportions
in my brain, now that my imagination is set going.
I work at it, it is finished ; I bring it back, and
it is exhibited And the crowd in front of it, the
emotion which brings a lump to my throat, the fear
of some absurdity or other, then excessive ioy following
this anguish. And when I had suffered all this, with
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hU MARIE BA8HKIRT8EFF.
its accompanying shivering and perspiration, I rose at
three o'clock; I have been reading, and am now writing
with the sketch in front of me. Rit I am preparing a
terrible deception for myself therein! No, as I am not
certain of anything, I am going to try. . . . Besides, perhaps
the two cups of tea which I took this evening have pre-
vented me from sleeping. Oh no ! . . .
Tuesday, August 15th. — May God help me! I wish I
had never thought of it, and had not reckoned upon any-
thing ; besides, happiness only comes as a surprise, and not
when one expects something; but I expect nothing. . . .
Only it takes away my sleep. It might be so lovely! I
understand it so well!
Thursday, August 17 tL — At the last sitting my artist
was seeking a subject for a picture, something modern and
good .... and then he wants to leave a nude figure in his
work ; " only it is so difficult to find a fine model " ; he
seems to perceive difficulties so insurmountable. . . . You
would think that a beautiful nude woman is not to be found
in Europe.
I fully believe that R F. has a very correct opinion
about me ; he takes me to be what I should like to appear,
that is to say, perfectly amiable, or, to speak more seriously,
a very young girl, a child even, meaning that while
talking like a woman, I am at my heart's core, and in my
own sight, of angelic purity. I really believe that he re-
spects me in the highest acceptation of the term, and that
if he ever said anything broad in my presence I should
be absolutely astonished. Anyhow, I always say that I
talk about everything .... but there is more than one
way of doing so; there is something more than conventionality,
there is modesty of language ; I speak probably just like a
woman, but I use .... metaphors and sentences so arranged
that in saying a thing I seem not to allude to it It is as
though instead of saying, "My painting," I were to say, "The
thing that I have done." Never, even with Julian, have I
made use of the words : " Lover," " mistress," " liaison ; " that is
to say, of those exact and customary terms which give you the
appearance of speaking of things familiar to you. It is, of
course, understood that one knows it all, but one glides
over it; if one knew nothing one could not be droll, for
there are turns of conversation in which a little malice and
raillery on what is called love is unavoidable, however lightly
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PARIS, 1882. 545
it may be touched upon. With R. F. we speak chiefly
about art, but yet .... After all, it leads up to music and
literature.
Well, now, I quite see that Tony R. F. takes his ... .
acquaintances according to their true nature, that he finds
it very natural, and that if I have the frankness not
to be silly he has tact enough never to say as much
about it as I do. It must be added that you cannot judge
me by this journal, in which I am serious and plain. I
produce a better effect in conversation ; for there are certain
ways, certain touches of language, similes, and suggestions
at once original, fresh, picturesque, and funny.
I am vain and foolish. . . . I actually believe that
this Academician sees me as I see myself, and therefore
appreciates all my motives, as one would say of the perform-
ance of an actress. That we enhance our own merits is well
known; we attribute some to ourselves even when totally
devoid of them; well, granted, and then let me tell you
that it is very charming to think yourself appreciated. And
then with R. F. and Julian I am more open than with
others ; I feel that I am on safe ground, and confidence
gives me a charm that I should not have under other
circumstances.
Friday , August 18th. — We did not find Bastien at
home ; I leave a note for him and catch a glimpse of what
he has brought back from London. There is a little
errand-boy, a street urchin, leaning on a post in the street ;
you seem to hear the noise of the vehicles that are passing.
And the background is scarcely touched, but the figure !
what a devil of a fellow he is !
Ah ! what ill-natured fools they are who treat him as a
mere craftsman. He is a powerful and original artist, a
poet and a philosopher ; the others are only manufacturers
of something or otner when compared with him. ... It
is impossible to look at anything else when his painting is
before you, for it is beautiful as Nature and as life. The otner
day Tony R F. was obliged to agree with me that you had
to be a great artist in order to copy Nature, and that
only a great artist can understand and render Nature. The
ideal is in the selection ; as to the eccecution, it must be the
summit of what the ignoramuses call naturalism. Paint
En^uerrand de Marigny or Agnes Sorel if you like, but let
then: hands, their hair, and their eyes, be living, natural, and
human. The subject is of little importance, and masters
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546 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
have often painted subjects of their own period Doubtless,
from all points of view, the modern is the most interesting
but the true, sole, and good naturalism consists in the
execution. Let it be Nature itself, the very life, and let
the eyes speak 1 It matters little whether it be Mile, de
la Valli&re or Sarah Bernhardt 1 . . . . Without doubt it
is more difficult to create interest .... and yet if Bastien-
Lepage painted Mile, de la Valliere or Marie Stuart — dead,
dusty, and hackneyed as they are — they would nevertheless
live again. There is also a sketch of the little portrait of
Coquetin the elder. ... I came back from it quite petri-
fied ; it is his very grimace, his hands move, he speaks, his
eyes blink !
Saturday, August 19th. — I am working in the garden,
which gives me quite the scenery of the rare Monceau : I
am painting a boy of about twelve, with his blouse and
apron; he is sitting on a bench and reading an illustrated
Eaper, with an empty basket beside him. . . . This is to
e seen here constantly in the park and in the streets.
Monday, August 2\st — I am .... ready to scratch
everybody: I am doing nothing! And time goes on; for
four days I have not been sitting ; I commenced a study
out of doors, but it rains, and the wind blows everything
down. I do nothing.
I tell you that this void drives me mad ! I am told
that this torment shows my real worth! Alas, no! It
shows that I am intelligent and see clearly. . . .
Besides, I have now been painting for three years.
Tuesday, August 22??rf. — I went to the March£ du
Tempjle with Rosalie. And my eyes are still wide open with
astonishment. It is a marvellous quarter; I bougnt some
old things for my studio, but 1 did nothing save look at
the various types of people. Oh! the street! But that is
to say if only one knew now to render what one sees ! . .• .
Alas ! I have the faculty of seeing, and am still dazzled
with what I saw. The attitudes and gestures, life caught in
the act, Nature true and living. Oh ! to catch Nature and
to know how to render it !
That is the great problem. Oh ! why have I not got that
power ? . . . That animal, Tony R. ¥., said truly, " With
your aspirations, Mademoiselle, I would do everything in
the world to become master of the art"
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PARIS, 1882. 547
So I come in and make several sketches of the things
I caught sight of: a bench in the street, with several little
girls talking and playing together. This assemblage of
children's faces is aelicious. Then the table of a cafe, with
two men, whose characteristic attitudes are there, graven in
my head and sketched on the canvas ; the mistress of the
cafe is leaning in the shadow of the door.
And then at the Temple, a very fair girl, who laughs as
she leans against her stall — a stall of memorial wreaths.
This last picture can be done in the studio. . . .
But the two others want the open air. ... I do not
know why I am saying all this. From to-morrow. . . .It
is a delirium !
In short, these glimpses that one catches unawares are
like windows opening on people's lives: you may imagine
and guess the life, character, and daily habits of these
people. It is wonderful, of intense and thrilling interest.
But ! . . .
The imbeciles think that to be modern or realistic it is
enough to paint the first thing you meet without arranging
it. Do not arrange, but select and catch it; that is every-
thing.
Wednesday, August 23rd. — Instead of working hard at
some study or other, I am out walking; yes, Maaemoiselle
goes for artistic rambles and looks about her ! I have been
twice to the children's hospital, in the morning and in the
afternoon.
The lady-superintendent is already my friend ; as for the
children, thanks to a largess of bonbons, they surrounded
me at my second visit, pressing round my dress like a flock
of charmmg little animals. All these truthful innocent eyes,
still so vague, and all following me with little steps and tot-
tering legs. Then they were made to sit down. And all
in play, without any pretensions, the cleverest of them set to
work to recite to me, casting a look at me from time to time
to see the effect
As soon as I got back I made a sketch : Sinite parvtdos
venire ad me. Jesus and the children. Ah ! if I had but
talent !
Monday, August 28th. — There are days in which I
really believe myself somebody. Listen, it is impossible
that this delirium, these transports, this love for what I am
doing, are not destined to end in something great It is
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548 MARIE BASHKIBTSEFF.
impossible to see and to feel Nature and form as I do,
without arriving at ... .
I have drawn the second figure of the picture ; then as
Mme. T , who had arrived while I was working, was
reading in a corner, I made a rough sketch of her. Nothing
should ever be arranged; no arrangement is equal to the
truth ; high art consists in seizing tne precise moment and
painting what one sees. . . .
But let this truth sink well into you : that, in order to
copy Nature accurately, genius is indispensable, and that an
ordinary artist will never do more than parody her.
A clever craftsman who copies for the sake of copying
does common work, which the vulgar call realistic, and wnicn
it is often justified in ridiculing.
It is not a question of taking no matter whom and
painting him just as one sees him ; the movement that is
caught and the position are scarcely retained, and in posing
would become stiff: but the mind must be struck, and
must retain the impression of the instant when you saw
the thing. That is where you recognise the artist
I have read one of Ouida's books over again, a woman
of mediocre talent; it is called Ariadne, and is in English.
It is a book in the highest degree sensational ; I nave
been twenty times on the point of reading it again during
the last three or four years, and have always held back,
knowing the agitation it caused me, and must still cause
me. It treats of art and love, and the scene is laid
in Rome: three things united, one of which is enough to
excite me, and love is the least of them. The love might
be taken away from the book, and fully enough would
remain to delight me.
I have an adoration, a veneration, and a passion, for
Rome that is beyond everything. For the Rome of artists
and of poets, the time Rome, has not been injured the least
for me by worldly Rome, which has made me suffer. I only
remember poetic and artistic Rome, and that makes me fall
on my knees.
Sculpture is the art in Ouida's book ; I am always on
the point of commencing it : last night I could not sleep 1
divine power of art ! O heavenly and incomparable
feeling, which is worth everything else ! O supreme enjoy-
ment, which elevates above the earth ! With heavily laden
breast, and eyes wet with tears, I prostrate myself before
God to invoke His protection.
It is enough to drive one mad ; I want to do ten things
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PARIS, 1882. 540
at once; I feel, I believe, bdieve, you understand, that I
am going to do something important And my soul flies
off to unknown heights.
Provided only that it be not to fall to a lower depth.
. . . Those returns are terrible, but one must experience
everything in life. . . . Days of depression follow hours of
exaltation ; I suffer during both. . . . However, I am not
affected enough to say that I suffer equally.
To arrange nothing ! And the pictures ? Mine ! Well,
it is almost the same thing, a subject arrests you, strikes
you. It is clear that at that very moment you represent
the scene to yourself, you see the pictura
If your imagination has been sharply struck, you see it
almost at the same time that you read of- it or think
about it.
I am certain that all the really affecting pictures have
been conceived in that way.
Beyond that there is only research and correction — studio
work. You must only pamt what fixes itself upon you,
worries you, and takes possession of you.
Dumas is very riffht. We do not take possession of our
subject ; it is the suoject which takes possession of us. A
man who is playing for a hundred sous may experience the
same pangs as he who plays for a hundred thousand francs.
I can therefore understand it.
No, no ! I feel such need of translating my impressions,
such violence of artistic emotion ; so many confused things
are crowding together in my head that they cannot fail to
be translated some day. . . .
The formula. Oh, the formula !
Tuesday, August 2QiL — This book completely upsets
me. Ouida is neither Balzac, nor Sand, nor Dumas, but
she has written a book which, for certain reasons .... pro-
fessional ones, throws me into a fever. She has very correct
ideas of art ; her opinions have been gathered in the studios,
in Italy, where she has lived.
There are certain things. . . . For instance, she says
that amongst real artists, not amonejst handicraftsmen, con-
ception is immeasurably beyond tne power of execution.
And then the great sculptor Marix (of the novel), who sees
the first efforts in modelling of the young heroine, the future
woman of genius, says : "Let her come and work, she will
be able to do whatever she pleases" " Yes," said Tony
R F., looking for a long time at my drawings at the
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550 MARIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
studio; "work, Mademoiselle, you will do wJiatever you
please"
But doubtless I have not worked in the right direction.
Saint-Marceaux said that my drawings are those of a
sculptor, and I have always loved form beyond everything.
I also greatly adore colour, but now, after this book ....
and even before it ... . painting seems to me very inferior
to sculpture. Besides, I ought to hate it, as I hate all
imitations and impostures.
Nothing irritates me so much as to see things in relief,
imitated in painting on a canvas which is necessarily flat
and smooth. What is more odious than pictures of bas-
reliefe, from the best things in art down to coloured wall-
papers ? To me it is like a red rag to a bulL A frame
counterfeited in painting on certain ceilings, even at the
Louvre. . . . And the wainscots of rooms in furnished apart-
ments which imitate carved wood or lace flounces. It is
detestable.
But what is keeping me back ? Nothing ; I am housed
in such a manner tnat nothing is wanting to my artistic
happiness. A whole floor to myself: ante-room, dressing-
room, bed-room, library ; studio with a splendid light, giv-
ing it on any side as required ; and a little garden where
I can go down and work. I have had a speaking-tube
put in so that people may not come up to disturb me, and
that I may not have to lie constantly going down.
What is it I am painting ? A little girl who has put
her black petticoat over her shoulders, and is carrying her
umbrella open. I am working out of doors, and it rains
almost every day. And then .... of what importance
is it ? What is it compared to an idea in marble ? And
what am I doing with my sketch of three years ago, for it
dates from October, 1879 ? This subject was given us at
Julian's, and I was taken with it as I was with the holy
woman at the sepulchre. Ariadne ! Julian and Tony botn
thought that its sentiment was good ; and I was taken
with it as I am with my present picture. For three years
I have been on the point of learning sculpture in order to
do this subject ... I feel quite devoid of strength to
face vulgar things. And the terrible "to what purpose?"
clips my wings.
Theseus has fled during the night Ariadne, finding her-
self alone at daybreak, runs all over the island in every
direction, when with the first ray of the sun, as she has
reached the poiat of a rock, she sees the vessel, like a point
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PARIS, 1882. 551
on the horizon. . . . Then. . . . That is the moment to
seize and difficult to describe ; she can get no farther, she
cannot call ; water is all round her, and the vessel is only
a point which is scarcely visible ; then she falls on the rock
with her head on her right arm in a position which should
express all the horror of the desertion, of the despair of
that woman left there in such a cowardly manner. . . .
I do not know how to express it, but tnere is an im-
potent rage, an utter dejection to be expressed • which
take powerful hold of mfe. You understand, she is there at
the extreme point of the rock, exhausted with grief and,
in my opinion, with impotent rage; there is an entire
abandonment, the end of everything ! . . . This pre-
cipitous rock, this brutal force .... which holds the will
captive . . . and the rest !
Yes, exclusive attention to linear perspective is a
deception ; preoccupation about tones or about colour is
a wretched thing, mere journeyman's work, which by
degrees absorbs everything and leaves no room for
thought
Thinkers and poets in painting are craftsmen of the
eighth order. How could I so misconceive this truth and
clmg to it with such absurd energy ? . . .
Wednesday August 30th. — I am sketching my Magdalen ;
I have a model who is excellent for it ; besides, I saw
the head that I want three years ago, and this woman
has exactly those features and even that intense, terrible,
and despairing expression.
What charms me in painting is the life, the modern
feeling, the movements or the things one sees. But how
am I to express it ? . . . Besides being desperately difficult,
almost impossible .... it does not move me.
Nothing in painting has touched me like the Jeanne
d'Arc of Bastien-Lepage, for there is a something mys-
terious and extraordinary in it. . . . An emotion under-
stood by the artist, the perfect and intense expression of
a great inspiration ; in short .... he has looked for
something grand, human, inspired, and divine, at the same
time ; what it really ivas and what no one had comprehended
before. And has not Jeanne d'Arc been painted ? Divine
goodness ! " My mother's cross !" It is as plentiful as Ophelias
and Marguerites. He is preparing to paint an Ophelia; I
am sure it will be divine. As for Marguerites, even 1 have
entertained the idea of painting one .... For a certain
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552 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
moment has to be seized, just as in the case of Jeanne d'Arc.
... It is when the girl — not the Marguerite of opera, in a
fine cashmere dress, but the girl of the village or small
town, simple — do not laugh — human — if you understand
you will not laugh — when this girl, undisturbed up to
that time, returns to her garden after meeting Faust, and
pauses, her eves half cast down, a far-oft' look, half
astonished, half smiling and pensive, feels within herself
the awakening of a something new, unknown, charming,
and yet sad . . . Her hands sbarcely hold the prayer-
book which is nearly slipping from them. ... To ao that,
I will go to some little town in Germany and paint the
picture next summer. . . .
But, good Heavens, what have I done all this sum-
mer ? Nothing 1 Besides, perhaps I shall not be able to
execute it just yet, and Marguerite can wait a little longer.
But my picture .... it is so fine, so sublime to do.
Would it not be better to wait a year longer in order to
be better able to execute it ? ... Ah ! I am silly, I
ought to learn grammar, and I am thinking of writing
poema I ought to go to the studio every day up to three
o'clock, and then model for three or four hours. That's
the truth. And why don't I do it? Why are things so
arranged in this world ?
It is true that people less advanced than I dare
to paint pictures, but they are those who have reached
their limit and can go no fwrther; I am not advanced,
but I can become so, and I have the consolation of being
a beginner, for after all I have only been working for
five years. And Robert Fleury, senior, devoted four years
to drawing before he attempted to paint, and how many
there are who spent two years in modelling and several
years in drawing ? . . . And I draw well and commence
to paint fairly : there is life in what I do ; it speaks,
looks, and lives. . . . What have I to complain of,
then? Nothing; I must work ! . . . . Only I do not
see that my greatness lies in painting .... that is
to say .... I am confused, I can say no more.
.... I am confused. O fool, the first necessity
is to know one's business. The thought, beauty, and
philosophy of painting, lie in the execution, and in
the exact comprehension of life. ... To seize life in
tones that sing, and all true tones sing. Anything, no
matter who or what, if exactly reproduced, is a chef-
d'ceuvre, for it is life itsel£
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PARIS, 1882. 653
As regards sculpture, do you imagine then that
there is no execution in it ? Well, there is hardly any ;
there is more — there is creation. Yes, the deceptions of
lines and colour are wretched subjects for study; there
is execution and ability in sculpture, but of a different
kind; there is creation. It is the truth, the real being,
complete, true, to which, if you are an artist, you first
communicate life, and then, if you are roused, and if
you have the sacred fire, you give it thought, and a
deep meaning, mysterious or grand. There is material
work in both; but in sculpture it is simpler, nobler,
more .... honest, if I may say so. In fact, one can
endow it with this spark, this supreme mystery which is
in you, which is divine and inexpressible. . .
Friday, September 1st. — I receive a letter from mamma,
who writes to tell me that our voung neighbours are
coming for two months with otner friends, and that
great nunting parties are to be arranged. She is ready
to return, but as I asked her to inform me if ... .
she informs me. There now, that throws me into a sea
of incertitudes, doubts, and worry. If I go, it's all up
with my picture for exhibition. ... If, now, I haa
worked all the summer I should have had for excuse
the need of rest; but no. Well, acknowledge that it
would be magnificent; ay, but nothing is less likely. . . .
To travel by rail for four days and nights and to sacri-
fice the efforts of a whole year in order to try to please
and find a husband amongst people I nave never
seen. Reason and reflection have no part therein. . . . The
moment I begin to discuss this folly I shall perhaps
commit it .... for I no longer know what I am
doing. ... I will go to a fortune-teller, to Mother
Jacob, who foretold me that I should be very ill.
For twenty francs I have iust purchased happiness for
two days at least Mother Jacob prophesies the most delight-
ful things for me, only somewhat confused. . . But what per-
sists in recurring is that I am to have an enormous and
dazzling success — the newspapers will speak of it ; the
great talent that I shall have .... and then a great
and happy change, a splendid marriage, plenty of money,
and mucn travelling — travels to far countries.
I am going to bed stupefied with joy if you will, but
it has only cost me twenty francs I will not go to
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654 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Russia, but to Algiers .... for if all that is to happen
it will take place there iust as well as in Russia.
Good night; it has done me good, I shall work well
to-morrow.
Tuesday, September 5th. — It rains every day. It is
disheartening for me, as I want to work out of doors.
I have finished a little girl with an umbrella; it is bad,
and the child had an odious head : one of those little
street girls of nine years old, as pretty and as anti-
pathetic as can be. .
Then I went to the children's hospital, but did not
venture to undertake two little boys at once; I should
be compelled to finish off badlv, for one must reckon
eight days for each head. And have I done the
men at the cafe? ... I don't know; things strike me,
and then .... Oh, ill-balanced, scatter-brained creature, and
with all that .... Mad, and consciously so ! . . . .
The elder Dumas has said that when we hesitate
between two things it is because neither of them is
good. . . . And he adds that he never hesitated for
more than five minutes in his life. He is very fortunate
or a great liar ! . . .
Wednesday, September 6tk — I am not an artist ; I
wanted to become one, and being intelligent I have learnt
certain things. . . . Then what explanation can be given to
what Robert Fleury said when I began : " You possess every-
thing that cannot be learnt" He was mistaken. . . .
fiut I do artistic work as I should do anything else
.... with intelligence and skill, that is alL Then why did
I sketch heads m chalk on the card-tables in the country
when I was four years old?
All children draw. But why the constant wish to draw,
attempts to copy engravings, while still in Russia ; and then at
Nice, at eleven years of age ? There I was thought to have
extraordinary aptitude; this lasted for two years. . . .
While constantly on the look-out for sound instruction
I had two or three other masters, each of whom gave me
two or three lessons — that is to say, with whom I worked
for two or three hours.
In fact ... On considering the matter well, I find that
I have always been desirous of learning, that I made starts
and attempts without any one to direct me ; then came my
journey in Italy, Rome. . . . We are told in novels of eyes
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PABI8, 1882. 555
that appreciate lovely things at first sight, but I confess
that my eyes open by slow degrees to the beauties — that is
to say, the qualities — of pictures. ... In short .... I have
lost confidence, I have lost courage, I lack something ....
I see the beauty of colour, but .... I cannot even say
exactly that I do not attain to it, for there are one or two
things which are lovely in colour and good painting. If I
have done any I can certainly do more. . . . That is what
gives me encouragement . . . And I came to say farewell
to lay hopes of becoming an artist and a painter ....
especially a painter. At all events, 1 can paint pretty
well, but I think that I should succeed better witn
sculpture. ... I feel things which cannot be expressed in
colour .... forms, movements, and expressions. . . .
Thursday, September lUh. — I took my canvases to
Julian, and he is very satisfied. I must really finish the
fisher, which may be rather a success. . . . Yes, finish ;
always the same advice. . . . He is not at all exacting, isn't
father Julian. . . . Then he went on to say that Bastien's
Plre Jacques was admirably painted, but had not very
much meaning, whereas the fisher is true to life. ... It is
a type ; one sees many such ; it is the quiet man who
waits for hours without catching anything ; his head stands out
in relief against the water. If it had been well painted ! . . .
But there are already good qualities, it is only a question
of ... . And then the little girl with the umbrella ; and I
proceeded to make a display of all those ideas on art, of
which there are specimens in my journal ; he says that
they have changed me, that I am literary and "artistic/'
and that, after all, you require somethmg more than
thinking. . . . But that is not the point — or, rather, it is,
for that would induce me to make progress. . . . The idea
of my picture makes me quite mad.
Monday, September 18th. — My poor model being ill, I
came home about five o'clock and found R F., who was looking
for a background. We have talked again of open-air paint-
ing. ... If you knew what constant suffering these efforts
to hear cause me! I avoid everything I used to seek, I
am afraid of finding myself with people. ... It is fearful
But after all I believe that the painter who has the honour
of directing my artistic conscience will be converted by me,
and will paint a picture in the open air. Besides, he says
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556 MARIE BASHKIRT8EFF.
that he has no objection to the open air, and that in the
main we are agreed. That may be true.
I have iust been reading Balzac ! And in this respect I
agree with his de Marsay, wnen speaking of this second self,
which remains a constant and impassive spectator of the first.
And to say that he is dead, Balzac! .... One cannot
know the happiness of loving except by loving a man of
universal gemus. ... In Balzac one finds everything ....
I am quite proud of having several times thougnt as ne did.
Friday, September 22nd. — Yesterday I took the fisher
to R F. It is not bad, but that was all ; he thinks
that it is very well arranged, that the expression of the
head is very good, and that it is well placea on the canvas.
But the painting is thin, the edges hard, and the man is
not bathed in air; these remarks are R F.'s and my own ;
I knew it. Then I spoke of my progress, of my work,
and I commit the involuntary fault of confessing my
discouragement, and the little confidence I feel in myself
.... I sat to-day, and R F. told me that he had
spoken about me with Julian, and of my attempts and
ambitions. In fact, he pitied me yesterday, and they have
agreed, he and Julian, tnat it would be good for me to do
some simple studies at the studio ; that the difficulties
of the open air are beyond my present powers, and that I
am discouraged by it. He said it with so much considera-
tion for my feelings that I could scarcely help crying. I
believe he thinks that I am desperate because I have not
succeeded with the old fisher, on the success of which Julian
had permitted me to reckon, and he wishes to save me from
what he thinks disheartens me. He has always told me
that no one makes more rapid progress, that I am getting
on very well, and laughed heartily at my anxiety to go
faster than Nature would allow. Yesteraay, too, he said
that I am admirably gifted, that I have only to go on, and
now I have spoiled everything by my silly complaints
yesterday and by my dismayed attitude to-day: I shall
never again believe in encouragements ; I showed myself too
wretched not to believe that it was pity.
As regards my picture .... 1 nave not even ven-
tured to speak of it ; it is as though the air became
lead and drew the skin of my face to the earth and
fire to my arms. . . .
Since I have complained and have been foolish enough
to expose the greatness of my ambition, these two men
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PARIS, 1882. 557
can give me nothing but reasonable advice, seeing that it
is neither a sport nor a pastime for me, and that I am
reduced to despair. Then like two honest doctors they
order me powerful remedies. From all this it seems that
I am not able to paint a face .... a picture, for a
studio exercise is always good enough, whereas .... I
ought not to have shown inyself distressed as though
I nad founded foolish hopes on the old fisher. ... I
shall no longer have the truth, and then .... Breslau ?
Breslau is two years and a half ahead of me. What
does that prove ? Nothing. For two years ago she was
more advanced than I am now. She has been painting
for six years and a half, and I have been only just four
years at it I am not counting drawing in either case.
Therefore, if in 1884 I should not do what she does, I am
inferior to her.
I have no need to hear that in order to know it
For a whole year I have been undergoing martyrdom.
Cruel sufferings, I assure you ; loss of my good opinion
of myself, loss of confidence, courage, and hope. I am
only working with the horrible conviction that it leads to
nothing. That is what paralyses me ! And nothing can
raise me again except a good picture . . . and that
is impossible in this moral disaster.
In fact, there is only one thing to be considered; it
is that I have not been able to make a good painting
of my old fisher, that I have had the good fortune to
put my hand on an original, interesting, and artistic sub-
ject, and that I have been able to make nothing of it
That is the odious part of it
I am exhausted, all is at an end, my whole being
is annihilated . . . and I have not even language to
express this consternation which deprives me of the power
of holding my pen. . . Now for excuses ; it rained, and
I have always oeen interrupted just as I was executing
a picture ; that is true. . . I ought not to have brought
forward that picture which I did not yet consider pre-
sentable; but I wanted advice as I could not contmue
working.
Then seeing this powerlessness, Tony said that the
open air is too difficult for me. . . To-morrow I return
to the Grande-Jatte, and will commence again with the
energy and rage of despair.
Sunday, September 24tth. — Days pass by and are all alike ;
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558 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
from eight o'clock till five painting; a full hour for my
bath before dinner, then dinner in silence ; I read the
papers. Occasionally I exchange a word with my aunt
She must get very tired of it, poor thing ! for I am cer-
tainly not amiable ; she has never had any advantages, for
she was always sacrificed to mamma, who was beautiful;
and now she lives only for us, for me, and I cannot be
gay and amiable during the few minutes that we are
together ; and I am happy in the silence when I do not
think of my infirmitiea . . .
In Russia, Saturday , October \4<th. — My aunt left me
at the frontier and I am travelling with rauL I make
sketches at the stations, and read Tra los Montes on the
journey ; in this way I see Spain again, for Gautier's
journey is like a coloured photograph. What is it that
prevents my liking Th. Gautier entirely ? What is there in
this journey whicn checks you ? W hen he relates some
droll episode, it doesn't make you laugh, and he says: It
was the funniest thing in the world, or the most comic in
the world, or it was absurd, <bc. <Lc This has the same effect
as a man who before telling a story says that he laughed
at it like a madman . . But there is something mora
It is not perhaps sincere as literature, or rather it does not
flow naturally. . . But it is especially when he speaks of
art that he is to be admired, they say; he does not speak
very much of it in this journey, and actually omits \elas-
quez. I do not understand that in a man who loved
painting so much.
He speaks of Goya. Goya was doubtless a great
artist, though I only know a few of his paintings ; it appears
that his drawings and etchings are admirable ; so he speaks
about Goya, but . . . Velasquez ? He speaks of Murillo, and
of the magic of his painting. But Velasquez painted most
admirably of all ; no one has been truer to lite ; it is real
flesh; and, from the point of view of painting, it is the
summit of art.
We have five hours to wait for the train here . . . The
glace is called Znamenka, and here I am talking about
autier, Velasquez, &c. It is cold and grey ... If it were
not so cold, what lovely weather for the open air ! I looked
at the peasants with their clothes discoloured by exposure to
the air, as in all countries, and that too without sunshine ; well,
I assure you that Bastien's pictures are wonderfully correct.
This is grey, that has a flat look, that has no consistence,
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RUSSIA, 1882. 559
say those who have not looked at nature out of doors, and
those who are accustomed to the violent contrasts of the
studio ; but it is just so ; it is perfectly correct ; it is admirably
true. He is a fortunate man — that feastien ! As for myself
I left with a feeling of disappointment at the ill success of my
fisher.
But I will endeavour to do it over again in March for the
Salon.
Robert Fleury has made me do it over again. I was to
leave the background and the dresses, and work only at the
head.
Gavronzi, Sunday, October 15th. — We went to bed at
seven o'clock in the morning, for we went straight to Gavronzi
from Poltava. Mamma, papa, Dina, and Kapitan, were at the
station. Paul's wife has a son of fifteen days old ; the little
Sfirl is a year old, and is charming with her long black eye-
ashes. The voung P 's are to come to-morrow. Michka
has gone to their house instead of coming with the others to
meet me.
Thursday, October 19th. — They have come at last to have
luncheon with Michka. The eldest, Victor, is slim and
dark, with a large aquiline nose, somewhat broad and rather
thick lips ; he looks distinguished and genial The second
son, Basile, is as tall, and much bigger, very fair, with a
ruddy colour and cunning eyes; he has a bullying, noisy,
brutal, and ... by my faith, a vulgar air.
I have kept on yesterday's dress, it was of white wool,
short, and extremely simple; children's shoes of old red
kid; my hair twisted and fastened rather low on the nape.
This is not one of my brilliant days, but I do not show
too much to my disadvantage either. As it is very fine,
there is to be a walking party on the mountain, from which
there is a magnificent view ; it is like the country round
Toledo. These young men talk like men of the world and
Russian officers. They are quite young; the eldest is not
twenty-three, I think I am very tired of having had to
smile and talk all day long, for papa has insisted upon keep-
ing them to dinner, though they declared that they had an
important appointment with their steward, who is making
them go the round of their estates, &c. &c. This country
custom of pressing people to stay is very silly ; it has rather
annoyed me.
An incident. Their coachman was drunk, and this, it
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560 MARIE BA8HKIRT8EFF.
appears, happens every time here ; thereupon,, as though
it were the most natural thing in the world, Prince Basile
has gone out and beaten the poor man with his fists, and
kicked him with his spurs on. Does that not give one a
cold shiver down the back ? This youth is horrible, and his
brother seems sympathetic in comparison.
I do not believe that I shall make a conquest of either
the one or the other. I have nothing which can please
them ; I am of middle height, of harmonious form, and
rather fair ; I have grey eyes, not a large bust, and not a
waspish waist . . . and on the moral side, I believe that,
without 'too much pride, I am sufficiently their superior for
them not to appreciate me.
And as a woman of the world, I am not more charming
than many others in the circle in which they move.
Sarah Bernhardt has been hissed on her arrival at the
St. Petersburg station because the people expected to find
her tall and dark, with enormous black eyes, and a mass of
dishevelled black hair. Apart from this piece of stupidity, the
opinion formed of her talent, and of the woman herself,
has been very sound ; and I am quite of the opinion of the
Russian papers, who put Mile. Delaporte above Sarah.
How about Desclee, then ? To me, Sarah is not of much
account, except the adorable music of her voice when
she is declaiming verse. But why have I been talking to
you about Sarah?
Friday, October 20th — Monday, October 23rd. — General
consternation on Saturday morning. The princes excuse
themselves ! Thev will not come to the hunt, being
summoned by a telegram to an adjoining property. And I
who had so much difficulty in dressing myself! for I must
tell you that having drunk bad milk I was feeling so ill, that
it is only by a great effort that I have succeeded in putting
on this black velvet dress, in which it is impossible to Iook
plain ; papa was green, in consequence, and mamma red.
But I laughea, and heartily. At length we have started,
out of spite, furious, and swearing to go no further than to
Michel's, where the horses were to nave a breathing time, and
who awaited us with a magnificent breakfast.
Then, with spirits rather calmed, we continued our road,
— quarrelling with one another every five minutes about
returning. We halted in the open country. Papa, Paul,
and Michka, got down, and discussions went on at the coach
door. Mamma's ill-health was given to Michka as a pretext
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RUSSIA, 1882. 561
At last — papa having told our coachman not to listen
to us any longer — we started again, half smiling and half
disconsolate. It is clear that no one can suspect our
foolish projects. It might well be supposed that we should
be delighted had it happened, but no one can imagine that
I came as I did ; only, we who know the rights of it are
afraid, like thieves, that it may be written on our faces.
Alexander expected us with the princes. He would not
venture to say that he would not have restricted the ex-
penditure if he had foreseen that there would only be our-
selves and Michka, who himself must have also felt a slight
disappointment. You cannot imagine what these two brutes
represent to people's imaginations here. Alexander went to
fetch three cooks from Knarkoff — the famous Prosper from
the club even ....
However, the hunt has been magnificent — fifteen wolves
and a fox have been killed. The weather has been fine,
and we have lunched in the open wood, with more than
four hundred peasants, who had driven the animals towards
our guns, looking on at us. . . . Our guns I this is a
slight brag, for I have shot nothing, having seen nothing.
The wolves went to the left, and I was on the right, as
also were papa, Michka, and Garnitsky. I saw a fox, but
not within gun-shot. Then drink was distributed to the
peasanta An! I am forgetting my triumphant shot . . .
A peasant climbed to the top of a tree. We threw
him a bottle of brandy, which he fastened to the topmost
branch — of course, after emptying it — and we amused our-
selves with shooting at it. Every one has broken a morsel
of it — even myseff. Alexander did his utmost to be
agreeable, with a thousand flatteries about me — Nadine also.
Tneir son, iStienne, is a charming boy of fourteen, and is
the head pupil in the military gymnasium.
As for the menu and the wines, one could not require
anything better. And then this country is charming. The
house is admirably arranged, and it is only now that I am
in a position to understand to what a degree grandpapa
(Babanine) was artistic, intelligent, and superior, although
buried in his village. The garden and the park, the ponds
and the avenues— I would not change anything in them.
What an eulogy! Autumn, and the deserted condition in
which they now are, after ten years, lends them a great
charm. Gavronzi is horrible beside Tcherniakowka*
The rooms here are so well arranged — so homely — one
feels so comfortable ! The peasant women are beautiful, the
ll 2
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562 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Deople so picturesque. You remember, last year, what
aifnculty I had in finding anything to do at GavronzL It
is, perhaps, because I was here as a little girL . . . No,
it is because it is adorable, simply. As regards the recol-
lections, they are something quite apart
And the billiard table — a little Dilliard table which has
been there since. . . . Mamma remembers it in her
childhood, and I recollect when I did not reach up to it
I have played on the piano in the great, white, empty
drawing-room, and . thought of grandmamma who listened
formerly from the depth of her room at the end of the
long, long corridor. If she had lived, she would not be
more than sixty-five years old now.
We dined in the middle of that room where her body
lay in state for three days. I do not know whether the
otners thought of it, but it affected me. . . . But one
forgets everything. If she had lived, she would be so
proud of me — so happy !
Ah ! if one could make the old people alive again, with
what attentions one would surround them ! Grandmamma
had nothing but sufferings.
This evening there is one of those good soirees, such as
there were under mamma's reign. All the candles lighted,
all the doors open, seven very large salons, which seemed
quite filled, though there are not more than sixteen of ua
iStienne has played on the piano pretty well, then a
waltz, and Michka putting a Starovoi on his shoulders has
waltzed three times round the room.
The policemen who had looked after the hunt had been
invited to dinner.
Fireworks are let oft', and so that the f§te may be com-
plete a rocket sets fire to a very low hen-house covered with
thatch This procures a semblance of emotion for everybody
at a very cheap rate. The men and women servants run
like hares, the pails of water cross one another, and there
is much shouting; for hosts and guests it is a hunt in the
night ; with that flame and the trees it was charming !
We hurried to the scene of the accident in white dresses
and satin slippers ; otherwise, I should have been in the fire
like Michka, papa, Paul, and the policemen.
Papa has been quite in the flames ; he has saved all the
fowls and has perhaps even run some risk. It is so amusing
. . . there was nothing to fear. As for the wretched Jew,
author of the fireworks and of the disaster, he ran away
with all his might and has spent the night with Paul, whose
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RUSSIA, 1882. 563
cottage lies about halt-an-hour distant. Papa has given him
three roubles for his journey to-inorrow, Dut he has pre-
ferred to make the passage hanging behind the landau, and
that for forty versts, scarcely straddling on just a morsel
of wood. We did not become aware of this traveller until
we were half-way.
Friday, October 27th. — It is grey after the lovely sunshine
of yesterday, and, depressed through not working, I propose
that mamma, Paul, and I should go to Poltava On the way
we met the Princess and Dina, who were corning back, and
Dina returns thither with us. . . . At the hotel we find
Michka and Lihopay, and we go to the theatre. A piece
which confirms still more my ideas about the Russian theatre
. . . plays and novels are always more or less a reflection
of real life ; but all the same, I am not paying compliments
to my country. Its grossness is at once naive and depraved. . . .
"fhey kiss on the lips, as if it was quite usual, and that
occurs between lovers or husband and wife . . . then they
kiss on the neck, on the cheeks, &c, and the public says
nothing, it seems quite a matter of course to them; and
situations that one would have hissed . . . Young ladies of
society, the nice girls of the piece, give boxes on the ears
to young men who make declarations to them and whom
they suspect of loving only their dowry.
In short ... if all this took place in the demi-monde,
or in the realms of fancy or antiquity of Offenbach, and
with the accompaniment of all the usual gaieties and follies
. . . well and good ; but they represent bourgeois, owners of
property, people like ourselves, and it is quite serious. . . .
One does not know what to make of it.
This evening we see a little wild girl, an inginue who
adores a very mature sort of married man, corrupt and witty
(in the piece) ; every time they find themselves alone, and
that happens every instant, they kiss on the mouth ! — the
ingdnue, without any after-thought, and he for the pleasure
of the thing. Then in the evening there occurs an instant
in which tne man recedes, and the inginue says to him,
" Why do you fly from me ? what are you thinking of ? at
all events I am a living being, my blood boils, &c. &c."
In short . . . she goes to spend a night with a young
man who loves her, and returns to tell the old man and his
wife (for he has a young and pretty wife) that it is he, the
old seducer, who is the cause of it all ; for he has ajgitated
her senses to such a degree that she has been obliged to
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564 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
. . . console herself with some one else. The young man
marries her and, calling her " my affianced bride," he gives
her such a furious kiss on the mouth that she will have a
blue mark all round it to-morrow without doubt It is gross,
but not immoral ; it disgusts you with love, and arouses
absolutely nothing.
Monday, November 6tL — In fact, no doubt those people
cannot comprehend . . . Paris, elegance, celebrity ! why, what
is the good? Actors are celebrated, painters are only known
by name, and as regards names the only one cited and
known is Raphael ; and then there are the oleographs of
Russian daubers, whose talent is as false, pretentious, and
empty as their character. As to elegance, they only believe
in that of the dressmakers of Kharkoff " who have the Paris
fashions;" and as for our dresses, they are "excessive,"
"exaggerated," and truly, though coming from Paris, we
are not well dressed.
How, then, can I make any one understand what I suffer
in remaining here with my arms folded.
Tuesday, November 7th. — Here they so to the ball, get
drunk with companions, play at cards, ana take supper with
ballet-dancers. And if tney talk with ladies, it is only when
they are in love with them.
But to talk with j>eople generally, as in France, and about
all sorts of things, is unknown m these parts. No news
penetrates here; there is no conversation except the vul-
farest and dullest gossip. And the great distraction is the
otel ; owners of property (noblemen) from the neighbourhood
sometimes come to spend weeks there, and they visit each
other from room to room, drink and play at cards. The
theatre is deserted, and everything which might have the
shadow of resemblance to an intelligent amusement is
regarded with horror.
They crawl in the dust before the aristocracy in this
noble country Ah ! Pd see myself somewhere if I was
going to become like that ! . . . . However, to return to our
princes, whom, to the great astonishment of the Poltavians, I
persist in treating, as f treat all the rest of the world, as my
equals .... and as is usual in the civilised world ; our princes
do not please me over well However, the little one — he who
beat the coachman — is lively, amiable, and not silly ; I do not
say that because he played at being humorous by thrusting
himself under a table loaded with fruit and champagne, to
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PARIS, 1882. 565
upset thein. .... It is true that he beat the coachman ....
that is comprehensible up to a certain point in this country,
and at that age. Do you think they are astonished or shocked
here ? No, not a bit of it ; for another person it's simple
enough, for Prince R it is delightful. I want to go away !
Paris, Wednesday, November 1 5th. — I am at Paris! We
started on Thursday evening. Uncle Nicolas and Michka
accompanied us to the first station, and Paul and his wife to
Kharkoff. We stayed for twenty-four hours at Kieff, where
Julia (uncle Alexander's daughter) is at the institute. She is
fourteen years old, and is charming.
Thursday, November 16th. — I have been to a great doctor
— a hospital surgeon — incognito and quietly dressed, so that
he might not deceive me.
Oh! he is not an amiable man. He has told me very
simply J shall never be cured. But my condition may
improve in a satisfactory manner, so that it will be a bearable
deafness ; it is so already ; it will be more so according to all
appearances. But if I ao not rigorously follow the treatment
he prescribes it will increase. He also directs me to a little
doctor who will watch over me for two months, for he has not
the time himself to see me twice a week as is necessary.
I have had for the first time the courage to say, " Monsieur,
I am growing deaf" Hitherto I have made use of, " I do not
hear well, my ears are stopped, &c." This time I dared to say
that dreadful thing, and the doctor answered me with the
brutality of a surgeon.
I hope that the misfortunes announced by my dreams
may be that But let us not busy ourselves in advance with
the troubles which God holds in reserve for his humble
servant. Just at present I am only half deaf.
However, he says that it will certainly get better. As long
as I have my family to watch round me and to come to my
assistance with the readiness of affection all goes well,
yet .... but alone, in the midst of strangers 1
And supposing I have a wicked or indelicate husband !
... If again it had been compensated by some great hap-
Siness with which I should have been crowned without
eserving it ! But . . . why, then, is it said that God is good,
that God is just ?
Why does God cause suffering? If it is He who has
created the world, why has He created evil, suffering, and
wickedness ?
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566 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
So then I shall never be cured It will be bearable ; but
there will be a veil betwixt me and the rest of the world.
The wind in the branches, the murmur of the water, the
rain which falls on the windows . . . words uttered in a low
tone ... I shall hear nothing of all that ! With the K s I
did not find myself at fault once ; nor at dinner either ; directly
the conversation is just a little animated I have no reason to
complain. But at the theatre I do not hear the actors
completely ; and with models, in the deep silence, one does
not speak loud . . . However . . . without doubt, it had
been to a certain decree foreseen. I ought to have become
accustomed to it during the last year ... I am accustomed
o it, but it is terrible all the same.
I am struck in what was the most necessary to me and the
most precious.
Provided that it stops there !
Friday, November 17 th. — So henceforth I am going to be
less than no matter who, incomplete, infirm . . .
I shall need condescension and help from my own people,
and delicacy from stranger*. Independence, liberty, all tnat
is at an end
I, so proud, will have to blush and distrust myself at every
instant.
I write this to impress it on myself, but I do not yet
believe in it — it is so horrible ; for I ao not understand it yet
— it is so cruel, so incredible.
The sight of my fresh and rosy face in a glass fills me with
pity . . .
Yes, all the world knows it, or soon will know it, all those
who were already so happy to disparage me . . . She is
deaf But, good God, why suddenly this terrible, frightful,
atrocious thing ?
Tuesday, November 21sf. — Since yesterdw I have been
working at the studio, having come back to the most simple
work of all, concerning myself neither about the choice of
the model, nor its beauty, nor any pretension. " Six months
of this course," says Julian, " and you will do whatever you
5 lease." He is convinced that for three years I have l>een
oing nothing, and I shall end by believing it. In reality,
since I began painting I have made no advance ; is that as
much as to say that I do less ? No ; I have taken immense
pains, and for two years I have been undertaking things
perhaps too difficult, out I have been working.
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PARIS, 1882. 567
But Julian maintains that it is because I do not work that
I waste my abilities . .
They all bore me; I bore myself! ... I shall never be
cured Do you not feel how horrible, unjust, and maddening
that is ?
I bear the thought with calmness ; I have been prepared
for it; but yet that is not the reason, it is because I cannot
believe that it is for ever.
Do you realise it, for life until death ? . . .
Evidently it is influencing my character and my mind,
without reckoning that it has already brought me some grey
hairs.
I say again, I do not yet believe it. It is impossible that
there is nothing, nothing to be done ; that it is for eternity,
and that I shall die witn this veil between the universe and
me, and that never, never, never ! . . .
Is it not so, one cannot believe in a sentence so final, so
irrevocable ? And not the shadow of hope, not the shadow,
not the shadow !
This makes me so nervous in working, I am always afraid
that the model is speaking without my hearing, or some one
at the studio, or that they are laughing ... or even that, for
my sake, they are speaking too loud.
And with the model at home . . . But, confound it, they
tell her plainly that . . . that what ? That I do not hear
very well ! Try it then. A like avowal of infirmity ! And an
infirmity so humiliating, so foolish, so sad ; — an infirmity !
I have not this courage, and I always indulge the hope
that it will not be noticed.
I try to set it forth here, you know, but I do not
believe it ... It seems to me that I am speaking of
somebody else. . . . And how realise this horrible
nightmare — this fearful, cruel, atrocious thing? ....
in the flush of youth — the prime of life? How believe
that it is possible, that it is not a bad dream — that it is
everlasting ?
Thursday, November 23rd — What I am doing this
week is so bad that I cannot understand it myself. Julian
has called me to him, and has spoken such useless, such
cruel words to me .... so ... . I do not understand
it ! Last year he said almost the same thing to me. Now,
on looking at last year's studies, he says: "You would not
do as much at present — it was good work." According to
him, for three years I have not been doing anything — that
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568 MARIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
is to say, he commenced his reproaches, lamentations, and
little sarcasms from the time I began painting — three years
ago.
Perhaps he thinks that he will drive me to work —
just the opposite. It has crushed me; I have remained
stupefied for three hours, my hands uncertain, and my
arms burning.
Last summer I painted Irraa laughing, and everybody
thought it good. This summer — after Spam and my illness
— I have done a pastel that everybody has pronounced ex-
ceedingly good, and a painting that is considered fair. What
has happened since ? I have failed in mv fisherman.
Yes ; ana then I have been in Russia — six weeks' holiday —
I enter again, I come in for a filthy model, a bad place.
I force myself to work, though against the grain; I make
a fright, which I scrape and daub over; I try to paint an
arm m this muddle. Julian arrives, just as I had sketched
it in, and very badly; and then he makes those remarks
to me — in his own room, too, in private. I am not Breslau,
I know ; I need to study, I know ; but from that to coming
and telling me that all is lost, that I no longer know any-
thing, that there has happened, I know not what .... In
short, you would say that I know nothing at all, upon my
word of honour !
I am not doing it purposely. Then what ? After my
illness at Nice, all the attempts that I have made have
been treated by him as frights. But if it is his opinion, it
is also mine, only he neea not come and say that it is
because I waste my energies that I do nothing, that I am
sure of myself, that I will not, that I thmk I have
attained success. He does not believe it — it is an
absurdity. But it is very foolish, for it annihilates me.
If I do not make as rapid progress in painting as in
drawing, that is not a reason for saying all these infamous
things to me.
Monday, November 27th. — A pupil is sitting to me, and
willingly, ior I will give her the study. Overwhelmed by
Julian, I did not dare to ask it from any one, thinking
that it would be ridiculous on the part of any one who is
a failure, who no longer does anything, who, &c. &c.
Now that he can no longer say that I do nothing —
because I am working in his studio — he says that I am
making a semblance of it. That becomes annoying. The
day before yesterday he said that it is only for two years
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PARIS, 1882. 569
that I have been doing nothing. Of these two years I
have been ill five months, and convalescent or feverish for
six. In the remainder of the time I have done the picture
for the Salon — a woman, life-size, in the open air, in
Russia; the old man of Nice, Th^rfcse, Irma, Dina. So
much for large paintings. I am not counting a con-
siderable number of studies. That this may be bad, I
admit willingly, but after all it is not my cobbler's work
In short, ne thinks that it must stimulate me, and that
it may pass for wit That's exasperating. No doubt, Iain
not favoured like Breslau, who lives m a small artistic
circle, and where every word and every step aid study in
some degree. But I swear to you that I do what I can
under the conditions in which I am placed.
I am compelled to lose time, no doubt — the evening, for
instance, which Breslau spends in drawing or composing,
while, as for me, I am distracted and worried by the
visitors.
The surroundings are half the battle while you are a
student All this puts me in a cold rage, or one which seems
unnatural, owing to this fixed idea. If I did not fear
bringing other horrors upon myself, I should say that God
is unjust. Yet, indeed, no! I am horrified at myself, I
have grown stouter, my shoulders were already broad enough
without that, my arms are stout, and my chest grows
fuller.
Sunday, December 3rd. — Ah ! my God, rive me strength
to do nothmg but studies, since the advice of them all is that
I must render myself mistress of the art ; one does what one
likes afterwards. I reason so well and I have not the
strength. .... When one knows one's business well, all that
one does is good, or nearly so, whereas in my hands now ....
What is six months' time ? Shall I not wait patiently for six
months ? To forget all that would amuse me to paint, and
to do only studies, and not to lose time.
Continuity of efforts, and then afterwards ? . . . .
Tuesday, December 5th. — I have just finished reading
Honorific at a stretch, and I should like to possess that
sublime eloquence of the pen, in order that in reading me
one might interest one's self in my dull existence.
It would be curious if the recital of my want of success
and of my obscurity were going to rive me what I am seeking
and shall still seek But I shall not know it ... . ana,
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570 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
besides, for any one to read me and find his way in these
thousands of pages, must I not become somebody ? . . .
Uncertainty and discouragement make me remain idle —
that is to say, reading all the evening; and then I feel a
stinging remorse. But I am either quite alone or else with
my family, which is stupefying.
As I write I stop at every word, for I do not find
expressions to depict the frightful trouble, prostration, and
terror that I experience in not sticking to anything.
What has happened ? Nothing.
What, then ? I would consent with joy to live only ten
years, to have talent at once and realise my dreams. . . .
Two or three days ago we went to the Hotel Drouot;
there was an exhibition of jewellery. Mamma, my aunt, and
Dina, admired several parwres ; but I pooh-pjoohed it all,
except a row of wonderful diamonds enormous in size, which
I much coveted for an instant ; to have two of them would be
very nice, but such a miracle was not to be thought of, so I
have contented mvself with thinking that perhaps, some day,
by marrying a millionaire, I might have earrings of that size
or a brooch, for stones of that weight can hardly be hung in
the ears. That was reallv the first time that I understood
jewels. Eh, well ! yesterday evening they were brought to
me, those two diamonds; my mother and my aunt have
bought them for me, and I had only said, without the least
hope of getting them, " These are the only stones one would
covet." They are worth twenty-five thousand francs; the
stones are yellow, otherwise they would cost three times
as much.
I have amused myself with them all the evening, keeping
them in my pocket while I was modelling, and Dusantoy was
playing the piano, and Bojidar and the others were talking.
These two stones have passed the night close to my bed, and.
I have not been separated from them during the sitting.
Ah ! if other things which seem as impossible could also
come to pass ! . . . . Even though they might be yellow,
and might cost only four thousand instead of twenty-five
thousand !
But, however, this great grief is absurd; I cannot
complain of it to anybody!
Thursday, December 1th. — We have spoken for an instant
with Julian ; but no more of those long talks ! There is
nothing more to talk about, all has been said ; we wait for
me to work and produce. However, I reproach him with his
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PARI9, 1882. 571
injustice, or rather with the manner in which he proceeds to
make me move forward.
My pastel will be shown in a club and then go to the
Salon. It is a first-rate thing, says father Julian, and I
should like to hug him.
Well, you must paint a picture which will strike artists.
And 1 shall not be able to do it now. Ah ! Lord, if I
could believe that by working I shall succeed in it! That
would give me courage. But it seems to me at present that
I shall never be able.
I work badly, I admit ; since I did Irma, I have splashed
in the rain with father Charles, and then I have been in
Russia ; total, three months of stupidity. And three months
represent twelve studies, twelve torsos life-size or twelve
compositions half life-size. I have never in my life made
four of them in succession. Julian is right too ; I felt I
could kiss him !
But I have been ill for a year !
Thursday, December 14th. — This morning we go to see the
canvases that the real Bastien has just brought back from
the country. He is there, busy re-arranging the borders of
the paintings and certain things in the background. We
meet like friends ; he is so kind, such a good fellow !
Perhaps he is not all that ? But he has so much talent I
Yes indeed, he is charming.
And the poor architect is completely eclipsed by his
brother's radiancy. Jules has brougnt back several studies :
An Evening in the Village, the moon is already seen and
windows are lighted up ; a man returning from the fields,
turns round to speak to a woman who is going towards the
house with the illumined window; the twilight is marvel-
lously rendered, the calm which pervades everything, the
Seople returning home ; everything is silent, one only hears
ogs barking. Oh, what colour, what poetic feeling, what
charm ! . . . .
In the style of Jules Breton — who is called a poet, as big
as your fist — but better.
There is also a forge at which an old fellow is working.
It is quite small and is not lass beautiful than those mar-
vellous little dark canvases that one sees at the Louvre.
Besides this, there are landscapes, water, Venice and London ;
and two great canvases, an English flower-girl and a peasant
S'rl in a held. It is life-size, and it has filled me with stupe-
ction ; it seems to me so inferior to himself.
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572 MARIE BASHKIBTSEFF.
At first one is dazzled by the variety and all-powerfulness
of this talent which disdains specialism and does everything
in a superior manner.
His English boy is far above those two girls ; as to the street
boy of last year entitled Pas-mbche, it was simply a chef-d'oeuvre,
Sunday, December 17 th. — The true, the only, the unique,
the great Bastien-Ler>age came to-day.
I receive him wilaly, awkwardly, and confusedly, sad and
ashamed at having nothing to show him.
He stayed for more than two hours, after having looked
at all the pictures in every corner ; only I prevented him
from seeing, for I was nervous and laughing at random.
This great artist is very good; he tries to calm me, and
we speak of Julian, who caused this immense discourage-
ment. Bastien does not treat me as a fashionable young lady ;
he says just what Tony Robert Fleury and Julian say, only
without the horrid pleasantries of Julian, who declares that
it is all over with me, that I shall do nothing now, that I
am done for. That is what maddens me.
Bastien is adorable — that is to say, I adore his gifts.
And I think I have, thanks to my confusion, discovered
a delicate and unexpected way of flattery : the manner in
which 1 received him was already a very great flattery. He
makes a sketch in Miss Richards' album, which she had
entrusted to me to draw something in ; and as the paint
penetrated the leaf and soiled the following one, he wished
to put a piece of paper between.
"Let it alone, let it alone, it will make two for her."
I do not know why I am making Richards' happiness ; some-
times it amuses me to prepare a great pleasure for some
one who is not expecting it, and who is only a passing
acquaintance.
When I was painting at the Orande Jatte one day, a
whole family, the father and four or five children in rags,
with a wretched bundle of clothes, came to the edge of the
water ; it looked like a household removal of wretchedness.
I gave them two francs. It was a sight to see the joy,
the surprise of these poor creatures ! I hid myself behind
the trees. Heaven has never treated me so well, heaven
has never had any of those beneficent fancies.
Wednesday, December 20th. — I have, as yet, nothing in
hand for the Salon, and nothing presents itself. Ah, what
agony! ....
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PARIS, 1882. 573
Saturday, December 23rd!. — This evening we have
to dinner the great, the true, the only, the incomparable
Bastien-Lepage and his brother!
No one else had been invited, which was rather
embarrassing. They were dining for the first time, and
that, perhaps, seemed a little too intimate. And then the
fear tnat it may become tiresome— you understand ?
As regards the brother, he is received here almost as
familiarly as Bojidar ; but the great, the only, the true, &c.
Well, the little man who, if he were of gola, would not be
worth his gifts ; the little man seems charmed and flattered.
I think, at being made so much of. No one has yet
given him credit for "genius." Nor do I say it to him
either, only I treat him as such, and by artificial childish-
nesses I make him swallow an enormous quantity of flat-
tery. Bojidar comes for a minute in the evening. He is in
an amiaWe mood — overflowing in my sense of the word —
quite at home, and delighted at meeting the Bastiens and
other celebrities.
But, in order that Bastien may not imagine that I
push my admiration to excess, I couple with him Saint-
Marceaux, of whom I speak as " You two ! " So he stayed
until midnight. I have painted a bottle, which he has
approved o£ adding that " it is thus that you must work —
have patience, concentrate yourself, put into it all that you
can, try to render nature scrupulously."
Tuesday, December 2§th. — Ah, well, it seems that I
am ill The doctor who is attending me* does not
know me — has no interest in deceiving me. My right side
is injured — the lung is damaged — that is, never completely
cured. Only if I take care of myself, it will not get
worse, and I shall live as long as another. Yes ; but it is
necessary to stop it by violent means, such as cauterisation
or a blister — all the pleasures, in short ! a blister, that
means a yellow stain for a year. I shall have to wear a
bunch of flowers, which I will place so as to conceal it
for the soirees, on the right collar-bone.
I shall wait for eight days longer. If the complication
which has arisen persists, I shall, perhaps, make lip my
mind to undergo tnis infamy.
God is wicked.
Thursday, December 28tL — That really is the case! I
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574 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
am consumptive. He has told me so to-day — take care of
yourself, we must try to cure you ; you will regret it
My doctor is a young man, of very intelligent appearance.
To my objections against blisters and other infamies, he
replies that I shall regret it, and that he has never in
his life seen so extraordinary an invalid ; and also that from
my looks one would never, never think me ilL I have a
flourishing appearance, in fact, and both lungs are affected,
the left, however, much less.
The first time that I had a pain on my left side was
when I came out of the holy catacombs of Kieff, where we
had all been to ask God and the relics of the saints to
cure me, by a great supply of masses and roubles. A
week ago there was as yet nardly anything audible in the left
lung. He asked me if 1 have any consumptive relatives.
" Yes ; my grandpapa's father and his two sisters — the
Countess de Toulouse-Lautrec and Baroness Stralborne — a
great-grandfather and two great-aunts."
" Well, however that may be, you are consumptive."
My legs were a little tremulous as I came down the
staircase of this good man, who takes an interest in so
original an invalid However, it may be stopped if I do
what is necessary. That is to say, blisters ana the south.
To disfigure my shoulders for a year, and go into exile.
What is a vear compared with a lifetime ? It is lovely,
too, is my lite !
I am very calm, but slightly astonished at being alone
in the secret of my misfortunea And the fortune-tellers
who predict so much good fortune for me . . . However,
Mother Jacob foretold a malady. Here it is. " In order that
her prediction may be completely realised, there is want-
ing — the grand success, the money, the marriage, and
then the love of a married man." — At present I nave a
pain in my left side, which is the sounder one. Potain
would never say that my lungs were affected ; he employs
the formulae usual in such a case, the bronchial tubes,
bronchitis, &c. ... It is better to know exactly ; that decides
me to do everything, except go away this year.
Next winter, I shall have my picture of the two Maries
to explain this journey. If I went this winter, it would be
to have the vexations of last year over again. Everything
except the south ; and I commend myself to the grace
of God.
In fact, what has caused this doctor to say so much to
me is, that I am worse since my last visit. He is really
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PARIS, 1882. 575
treating me for my ears ; and, half laughing, I casually alluded
to my chest ; then he sounded me, prescribing globules (a
montn ago) and filthy things to put on my. skin, to which I
have not oeen able to bring myself, hoping that the disease
would not advance so rapidly.
So I am consumptive. And only since two or three years.
In short, it is not sufficiently advanced to kill me, only it is
very tiresome.
Oh yes ! But how explain my healthy appearance, and
my inability to get into my bodices which were made before
I was ill, and at a moment when there was no idea of
anything ? I suppose I shall get thin suddenly ; it is
perhaps because I am young, and my shoulders are so broad,
my cnest so convex, my hips so Spanish. I cannot recover
from all these catastrophes.
However, if ten years are still left to me, and if during these
tenyears I get love and fame, I will die content at thirty. If
there were any one to make a bargain with, I should be
willing to die after thirty, having Uvea first
But I should like to be cured .... that is to say ....
to have the disease checked ; it is never cured ; but one lives
with it, and for a long time, as long as any concierge.
Consumptive, not only nominally, but really. I will put on
as many blisters as they like, for I want to paint.
I shall be able to hide the mark by bodices trimmed with
flowers and lace and tulle, and a thousand other delightful
things that are worn without being required ; it may even look
pretty. Ah ! I am comforted. One doesn't always put on
blisters. After a year, or at all events two years, of care,
I shall be like anybody else — I shall be young .... I ... .
Ah I did I not say that I was going to die ? God, not being
able to give me what would render fife possible to me, gets
out of it by killing me. After having overwhelmed me with
misery, He kills me to finish up with. I have well said that I
must die, that it could not last. I told you so a long time ago,
years ago, at Nice, when I already caught a vague glimpse of
all that I needed in order to live. But others have more, and
do not die ! See now ! . . .
I shall not tell any one except Julian, who has dined
here ; and this evening, when we were alone for an instant,
I made him a significant sign with my head, at the same
time indicating, with my hand, my throat and chest. He
will not believe it ; I seem so strong. He reassures me,
mentioning some friends about whom the doctors had been
mistaken.
M M
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576 MARIE BA8HKIRT8EFF.
Thereupon he asks me what I think of heaven ? I had said
that I had been ill-treated by that same heaven. What I
think of it ? Not much good. He thinks I believe there is
something in it all the same. Yes, it is possible. I read to
him Musset's Espoir en Dieu, and he replied by the in-
vocation or the imprecations of Franck . ..." I want to
live ! "
So do I ; well it almost amuses me, this position of a
condemned person. It is a pose, an emotion ; I contain a
mystery, death has touched me with his finger ; there is a
certain charm in it; it is new, at all events.
And then to be able in real earnest to talk of my death,
is really interesting — I repeat, it amuses me. It is a pity
that I cannot without inconvenience have any other audience
than my confessor, Julian.
Saturday, December 30tk — It is getting worse ! There, I
am beginning to exaggerate ; but really it is getting worse,
and it is impossible for me to recover, and GckI, who
is neither just nor good, will probably punish me yet more
because I dare to say it ! He terrifies me so much that
I am going to submit, a submission that will not be placed
to my credit because it is through fear.
Provided that . . . . ; I cough a great deal and hear
sounds in my chest .... In snort, let us put off every-
thing to the fourteenth. Provided that I last comfortably
up to that date. No fever, no drawn face .... That
is what is so difficult .... Afterwards, it will perhaps
be too late ; it makes such rapid progress ; both lungs, think
of it ! ' Oh ! misery !
Sunday, December 31st. — It is too dark to paint ; we go
to church ; and then we go to have another look at the
exhibition in the Rue de Seze, Bastien, Saint-Marceaux, and
Cazin. It is the first time that I see Cazin's pictures,
and I am vanquished. It is poetry ; but Bastien's Sair aw
Village yields in no way to this professional poet called
Cazin ; and note that fiastien has been often injured by
the title of first-class craftsman.
I spend a precious hour there ; what an enjoyment !
There nas never been any sculpture like Saint-Marceaux's.
The words so often used as to be trite : " It lives ! " are
absolutely true in his case. And in addition to this master-
duality, which suffices to render an artist successful, there
is a depth of thought, an intensity of feeling, a something
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PARIS; 1882. 577
mysterious which does not constitute Saint-Marceaux a man
of immense talent, but almost makes him an artist of genius.
Only he is still young and is living; that is why 1 seem
to be exaggerating.
Sometimes, I could place him above Bastien.
It is mv one idea just now ; I must have a painting by
the one and a statue by the other.
M M 2
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578
CHAPTER XL
PARIS, 1883. HER FATHER'S DEATH.
Monday, January \8t — Gambetta, who has been sick or
wounded since several days, has just died.
I can't describe the strange effect produced by his death.
It is impossible to believe in it This man was so much a
part of the entire life of the country that it's impossible to
think of anything without him. Triumphs, defeats, carica-
tures, accusations, praise, humbug — nothing held together
without him. The papers speak of his fall, but he never
fell ! His cabinet ! Is it possible to judge a cabinet of
six weeks ? What humbug ! and what treachery ! You ask
of a man to turn into a Sully in forty days, constantly threaten-
ing him with his loss of office, for a question of any gross
absurdity.
He died attended by seven doctors ; and what interests
at stake, what an anxiety to save him ! What is the good
of taking care of oneself, of being worried, and of suffering ?
Death terrifies me at present as if I could see him.
Yes, I fancy that it is coming — soon. Ah ! How small
one feels ! And what's the use 1 Why ? There must be
something beyond ; this passing life does not suffice, is not
in proportion to our thoughts and aspirationa There is the
hereafter, without which tnis life has no solution, and God
seems absurd.
A future life .... There are moments when, without
quite understanding, we seem to catch a glimpse of it, and
are terrified.
Wednesday, January 3rd. — In reading the papers full of
Gambetta, I have a sensation as if my head had been com-
pressed in an iron band ; those patriotic tirades, those sonorous
words — patriot, great citizen, national mourning! I can't
work, I have tried ; I wanted to force myself to it, and it
is this assumed coldness of the first hour which has made
me commit the irreparable stupidity, not to be retrieved now,
of remaining in Paris instead of rushing off to the Ville
d'Avray as soon as we heard the news, in order to see the
room, and even make a sketch. I shall never be an
opportunist.
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PARIS, 1883. 579
Thursday, January 4th. — The coffin has been brought to
the Palace; the President of the Chamber received it.
" Thank you for having it here," he said to Spuller, bursting
into tears. . . . And I wept too. The austere, the brave, the
simple Brisson weeping ! He was not his friend. " Thank
you for having brought him here ! " This has a ring of
genuine emotion which no acting can ever impart.
We could not get in after having stood waitmg with the
crowd for two hours. The crowd was very respectful, if you
take the character of the French into account — the pushing,
the conversation, the constant temptation of being witty
about everything, the inevitable jokes in such a crush.
And when somebody laughed aloud there were people who
insisted on silence being Kept ; they were crying, " It's
indecent ; be respectful to him ! " but they were everywhere
selling his photographs, his medals, and illustrated papers —
" The Life and Death of Gambetta."
The heart contracts at this brutal confirmation of the
event, this publicity which is yet so natural, and appears to
me like an indelicacy.
Saturday, January 5th. — We shall see the funeral pass-
ing from tne windows of Marinovitch, the ambassador of
Servia and brother-in-law of the Princess Karageorgevitch,
240, Rue de RivolL It would be difficult to be better placed.
At three o'clock the cannon announce that the coffin is in
motion ; we are at the window.
The car — preceded in splendid style by mounted
trumpeters, military bands playing a funeral march, and
three huge carts loaded with wreaths — gave me a sense of
surprise, akin to disappointment — a severe but just criticism
of the two Bastiens, whose work it is. Through the tears,
which this magnificent sight brought to my eyes, I distin-
f lushed the two brothers walking quite close to their work,
he architect, to whom his brother had generously yielded
the first place, not himself in need of this celebrity, was
almost holding the cord of the palL The car is low, as if
crushed with pain — a piece of Mack velvet being thrown
across it, and some wreaths, as if flung there by chance,
and a crape veil The coffin was wrapped in flags. I should
have liked to have seen more majesty, perhaps because I am
used to ecclesiastical pomp. In snort, they wanted, very
properly, to avoid the every-day hearse, and to imitate a sort
of antique car, recalling tne body of Hector brought back
to Troy. You would have thought that after three trucks
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580 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
of flowers and several enormous wreaths carried by hand
had passed, that it was plenty ; but the three trucks were
quite lost sight of in what followed — for never, as every-
oody said, had been seen such a procession of flowers, of
flags in mourning, and of wreaths.
For my part, I acknowledge without shame that 1 was
completely overwhelmed by this magnificence. One is
moved, excited, over- wrought ! no words are left to ex-
?ress the same thing over and over again. What, more !
es, more, and still more ; hand-barrows full of wreaths, of all
sizes, of all colours, huge, fabulous, such as were never seen
before ; banners and rioands with patriotic inscriptions, gold
fringes which glitter through the crape. Avalanches of
flowers, beads and fringes, beds of roses swinging in the
sunlight, mountains of violets and of immortelles and then a
choral society — the funeral march, too quickly played, dying
away in sad notes in the distance ; then the sound of steps
on the gravel of the road, which I should like to compare
to the sound of a shower of tears .... and delegations
carrying wreaths pass and pass. Committees, associations,
Paris, France, Europe, trades, arts, schools, the flower of
civilisation and intelligence.
And then come drums muffled with crape, and the grand
blare of the trumpet after impressive periods of silence.
The salvage corps are cheered, and so are the students,
who salute as if to say, "There is, perhaps, such another
among us!" Then, again a funeral marcn, and yet rnore
wreaths. The most beautiful are greeted with murmurs of
admiration. There is a cheer for Algiers. As Belleville passed
I felt, with that faculty of assimilation and emotion wnich I
possess in so high a aegree, a movement of compassionate
pride, which clouded my eyes. But when the monumental
wreaths of the towns of Alsace-Lorraine appear, and the
tricolour flags draped in mourning, there is an agitation in
the crowd which orings tears to one's eyes. Ana the pro-
fession still goes on, and wreaths follow upon wreaths, and
the ribands and flowers glitter in the sun through veils
of crape.
It is not a burial — it is a triumphal march. Why not
say an apotheosis ? A whole nation follows this coffin,
and all the flowers in France are cut to honour this
genius, outrageously killed at forty-four years of age, who
represented all the generous aspirations of this generation,
who had ended by appropriating to himself, and by
uniting in his personality, the entire life of the youth of
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PARIS, 1883. 581
the country — who was the poetry, the art, the hope, and
the head of the new men.
' Dead at forty-four ! having only had time to prepare
the ground for his work of requital and of greatness.
Tnis incredible and unique procession lasts for more
than two hours and a half; and at last the crowd closes
up again — the indifferent and noisy crowd — no longer
thinking of anything, but laughing at the frightened
horses of the last cuirassiers. There has never been any-
thing like it — the bands, the flowers, the corporations, and
the children who, in the light mist and sunshine, looked
like the images of an apotheosis. This gilded vapour and
the flowers would make one think of the impossible
funeral procession of some young god. . . .
Even putting politics aside, I see that all the world
has been driven to show tender regret for him. He was
the friend and intellectual companion of this entire gener-
ation — he was the Republic, Paris, France, youth, ana the
arts. I seem to see a piece of stuff from which the chief
ornament has been torn away, leaving only a mark and
some cut threads.
Ah! flowers, wreaths, funeral marches, flags, delegations,
and honours — shower them upon him, impatient, un-
grateful, and unjust nation! All is over for the present.
Wrap up in tricolour stuff the coffin which contains the
frightful remains of that bright intelligence. You are, in
sooth, worthy to honour this mutilated corpse — you who
poisoned the last year of the life of that spirit who animated
it. All is over. There is nothing left but dwarfs, stupefied
before the yawning grave of him whose superiority was so
irksome to them.
How many are there who said to themselves that
Gambetta prevented them from becoming prominent by
his absorbing genius! Now you have room — show your-
selves! Ye jealous and impotent mediocrities, his aeath
will not change you.
We depart about three o'clock Everybody turns
to the left The Champs-l£lys£es is grey and deserted.
It is such a short time ago since this man was driving
there — so gay, so young, so full of life — in that very
simple carnage, about which he was so much reproached.
What bad faith everywhere! for intelligent, honest, well-
informed men — Frenchmen and patriots — could not in their
hearts and consciences believe in the infamies with which
Gambetta was charged.
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582 MARIE BA8HKLRT8EFF.
It is said that his seat as Deputy is already appro-
priated by an insect of the Chamber. There is nobody
there, then, to oppose this gross injury to the memory of
him who has given celebrity to the Tribune of this Chamber,
to the steps strewn with wreaths, adorned with lamp-
holders, and veiled, like a widow, in long black crape,
which falls- from the front like a scarf, and envelops it
with transparent folda
This veil is an inspiration of genius, and a more
dramatic decoration could not be invented. The eftect is
striking ; it gives one a shock, and leaves an impression of
chill and terror, like the black flag of a country in
danger.
Monday, January 8th. — Truly this man filled France
and well-nigh Europe. Everyone must feel that somebody is
missing ; it seems as if there is nothing left to read in the
newspapers, and nothing to be done in the Chamber.
No doubt there are more useful men, obscure workers,
inventors, and patient administrators. They will never
attain this prestige, this enchantment, this power. To excite
enthusiasm and devotion ; to collect together and unite
parties ; to be the heroic mouthpiece of his country ; is not
this useful, skilful, admirable ? To animate his country ;
to be the flag towards which all eyes turn in the time of
danger ... is not this rnore than all those political qualities,
those virtues, and that sagacious dexterity of mature
politicians? Good heavens! Victor Hugo might die this
evening, and it would not affect any one ; his work is there,
whatever may happen and it matters little whether he died
to-day or ten years ago, for his career is ended. But
Gambetta was life, he was the light of day springing up afresh
every morning. He was the soul of the Kepublic ; he was the
flory or fall, the triumph or ridicule of tne whole country,
ivents all centred in him, he was the mouthpiece ; he was
an epic in action and speech, of which we shall never again
seize either a gesture or an intonation of voice. Marvellous
incarnation of a party which is almost the whole of France,
and in every way tne dispenser of all that made hearts
vibrate with sympathy, fear, envy, admiration or hatred ; and
all is over for ever !
Tuesday, January 9th. — If I could explain myself, I
should say that the death of Gambetta fills me with despair.
I wept for the young Napoleon as one weeps at a melo-
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PARIS, 1883. 588
drama ; it was tragic, it was, above all, pathetic — this child
killed abroad, so far away ! . . . but what I weep for now I
could not very well say unless I had the honour of being
French, and the good fortune to be a man.
Tuesday, January \bth. — £mile Bastien took us to
Ville d'Avray, to Gambetta's house, where his brother is at
work. Until one has seen it with one's own eyes, one does
not believe in such a wretched interior — for modest would
very inadequately express it The kitchen is the only
comfortable room in this kind of gardener's house.
The dining-room is so small and so low that one wonders
how the coffin found room enough, and how his many
distinguished friends were able to surround it
The drawing-room is a little larger, but poor, and devoid
of all comfort A mean staircase leads to his bedroom, which
filled me with astonishment and indignation. What ! It is
in this wretched cage, of which / literally touch the ceiling
with my hand, that they left for six weeks a sick man of
Gambetta's constitution, and in winter, with the windows
closed. A stout asthmatic man, and wounded into the
bargain.
It was then this bedroom also that killed him. Vile,
cheap paper, a dirty bed, two secretaires, patched mirrors
between the windows, and curtains of old shabby red wooL
A poor student's lodging wouldn't be worse.
This man, who nas been so much lamented, has never
been loved ! Surrounded by' Jews, stock-jobbers, speculators,
company-promoters, he had no one who loved him for^him-
self or even for his glory.
But he need not nave been left a single hour in this
wretched unhealthy box.
What ! Can the dangers of an hour's journey be compared
to the dangers of remaining without air in this horrible little
room ? Why, he might have been carried on a mattress by
men without the slightest jar !
Ville d'Avray, or rather les Jardies, which were depicted
to us in the journals like a little house & la Barras. This man
W£s said to be so much taken up with his ease and luxury !
Why, it is infamous !
feastien-Lepaffe is working at the foot of the bed Nothing
has been touched ; the sheets crumpled over the eider-down
Suilt, which represents the body, the flowers on the sheets.
n the engravings one cannot appreciate the proportions of
the room, in which the bed occupies an enormous space.
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584 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
The distance between the bed and the window does not
allow one to move back at all : and the bed too is cut down
in the picture, its legs are not shown. The picture is truth
itself The head thrown back, three-quarter face, with
that expression of nothingness after suffering, of serenity
8tiU limng, and already of tlte next world. One seems to
really see him. The body, extended, laid out, annihilated,
from which life has just fled, is most striking.
It is an emotion under which you totter.
Bastien is a very fortunate man. I am a little embarrassed
in his presence. With the physique of a young man of
twenty-hve, he has that benevolent and unassuming serenity
that one sees in great men — Victor Hugo, for instance I
shall end by finding him handsome ; in any case, he possesses
that infinite charm of notable and powerful people who
know it, without conceit and without silliness.
I look at him working while he is talking to Dina, and the
others are in the adjoining room.
On the wall is seen the mark of the ball which killed
Gambetta He shows it to us; and then the calm of this
room, the faded flowers, the sunshine through the window, in
short, it makes me cry. . . . But he has nis back turned,
engrossed in his picture ; so not to lose the benefit of this
sensibility, I shake hands with him abruptly and go out
quickly, with my face covered with tears. I hope that he
has noticed it. It is silly .... yes, silly to own that one
always thinks of the effect
Monday, January 22nd. — For two months I have gone
twice a week to the doctor, recommended by M. Duplay,
who, as you may remember, had not time to attend me
himself The treatment which was, without fail, to have
had beneficial results, has not had them. I am not better, but
it is hoped that I shall not be worse. " And if you are no
worse, you must think yourself fortunate ! " It is nard.
Wednesday, January 2bth. — After a crushing day's work
at painting we go to see lStincelle. M. Bocher, the steward of
the Orleans, is there, and two others, one of whom is tall and
powerful, almost a Cassagnac, but spoiled by a double eye-
glass. I have listened silently for twenty-five minutes to
conversation about the horrors of the Revolution, the crimes
of France since '89, &c.
It would have been too easy to reply, especially as I never
close my eyes without having read two chapters of Michelet's
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PARIS, 1883. 585
Revolution. When old Bocher goes, I commit the mistake,
probably, of saying that I hold abominable opinions.
" What, you are a Republican ? "
How can one call one s self a Republican in this drawing-
room of pure Louis XVI, and with fitincelle in state in an
arm-chair of white lacquer, in a bleu de roi velvet dress with
panniers ? With her comical but charming head, this woman
is very agreeable.
I get out of it by saying that motives, intentions, faith are
admirable .... that the most generous impulse, &c. In
short .... that all parties have committed crimes .... to
have for an excuse the prospective happiness of all ... . that
it is natural that at first one feels one's way, one is deceived,
sometimes cruelly. ... In fact, timidly, Dut in sufficiently
precise terms, a modest apology for the Revolution ....
resting on the sentimental side; and fitincelle consoles
mamma by saying to her that whatever is generous and
heroic in all this must needs find an echo m my young
heart, &c. &c. Meanwhile the gentleman with the eye-glass
remained, and uttered from time to time a word or a phrase
in the style of Cassagnac ; and, as we left, he said how much
he had regretted not to have been able to come to our soiree
(he had had an invitation through Saint-Amand). An
exchange of lively compliments with mamma, and a flatter-
ing observation to me, with whom he is honoured, flattered,
enchanted to have made acquaintance. I reply with an
inclination of the head.
Thursday, February 22nd. — The head of the smallest
boy is entirely painted.
I play Chopin on the piano and Rossini on the harp,
quite alone in the studio. The moonlight is lovely; the
large window permits a view of the clear, blue, magnificent
heaven. I think of my holy women and am so enraptured
with the manner in wnich the picture presents itself to me
that I have a silly fear lest some one else should do it
first. . . . This disturbs the profound calm of the
evening.
There are enjoyments apart from everything ; I am very
happy this evening, I have just read Hamlet in English and
have been lulled by the music of Ambroise Thomas.
There are eternally affecting dramas, immortal characters
.... Ophelia .... rale and fair. — That touches one's heart
— Ophelia! One would like to experience an unfortunate
love. Ah Ophelia, flowers and death, ... It is lovely !
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586 MARIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
There must be formulae for reveries like this evening's,
that is to say, that all the poetry which passes through my
head should not be lost, but should form itself into a wort
.... Can this journal be that work ? . . . . No, it is too
long. Ah ! if God permitted me to do my picture, the true,
the great one. This year, it will still be only a kind of
study .... Inspired by Bastien ?
Good God, yes ; his painting so resembles nature that if
one copies nature faithfully one is bound to resemble him.
The heads are living, it is not fine painting like Carolus,
but painting ; in short, it is human flesh ana skin, it lives
and breathes. There is neither dexterity, nor touch: it is
nature itself and it is sublima
Saturday, February 2UL — You know that I am con-
stantly preoccupied with Bastien-Lepage ; I have accustomed
myself to pronounce this name, and I avoid pronouncing it
before the world as if I had something to be ashamed o£
And when I speak of him it is with a tender familiarity
which seems natural to me considering his talent, but that
might be misconstrued.
By heaven, what a pity it is that he cannot come as his
brother does !
And what should I make of him? Why, a friend!
What ! you don't understand friendship ! Ah ! for my part
I should adore my celebrated friends, not only out of vanity,
but by taste, on account of their aualities, of their wit, talent
and genius ; they are a race by themselves ; after passing a
certain vulgar level one finds oneself in a purer atmo-
sphere, a circle of the elect, where we can take one another
by the hand and dance a rondeau to the honour . . . What
am I saying? Really Bastien has a charming head.
I am very much afraid that my painting resembles his
... I copy nature very sincerely, I Know, but I have his
painting in my mind . . . Besides, a gifted artist who is
sincerely charmed with nature and wishes to copy it, will
always resemble Bastien.
If it goes on ma-king as much progress ... I shall have
finished m four or five days, yes, but . . .
Sunday, February 25th. — It must be horrible, for I think
I have done something good. For an instant I have been
pleased with myself, and mat has caused me a feeling of dread
which still pursues me. Now if it is not very good it will
be doubly miserable. .
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PARIS, 1883. 587
Tuesday, February 21th. — Well, there has been a series of
lively days ; I sing, talk and laugh, and Bastien-Lepage comes
back again like a refrain. Neither his person, nor his figure,
scarcely his talent Nothing but the name . . . however, I
am smitten with fear ... If my picture should be like him ?
He has lately painted a lot of little boys and girls. The
celebrated Pas-mihehe among others, what can one see that
is more beautiful?
Well, for my work. There are two street boys who are
walking along a pavement holding each other by the hand ;
the eldest is seven years old and looks into space, before
him, a leaf between his lips ; the younger looks at the spec-
tator and has one hand m the pocket of his four-year-old
boy's trousers. I do not know what to think, for I have again
been pleased with myself this evening. It is truly fearful !
But this evening, this evening, is an hour of immense joy !
"What," you will say to me. " Saint-Marceaux or Bastien-
Lepage have come ? " No, but I have made the sketch for
my statue.
You read aright. Directly after the 15th of March I want
to make a statue. I have in my life sketched two groups, and
two or three busts, all left half-tinished . . . because, working
alone and without direction, I can only attach myself to a
thing which interests me, in which I place my life and soul, in
fact, something .... not a simple studio study.
To conceive a figure, and to have an immense desire to
execute it, that's it.
It will be bad. What does that matter? I am a born
sculptor, I love form to adoration ; colour can never give as
much force as form, though I am as crazy about colour. But
form ! A charming movement, a fine attitude ; you go round
it, the outline changes while keeping the same meaning. . . .
Happiness ! Delight !
My figure is a woman standing and weeping, her head in
her hands. You know that movement of the shoulders when
one cries.
I wanted to kneel before it. I said a thousand absurdities.
The sketch is half a yard high, but the statue will be life-size.
It will be a defiance to good sense. Really ; why ?
Well, I have torn up a beautiful cambric slip to wrap up
this frail little statuette. I like this clay better than my
skin.
And then I have not good eyes ; if I can no longer see
sufficiently well to paint, I will model
It is so lovely ; this white moistened linen covering up and
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588 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
draping with lovely folds this supple figure, which I see as it
ought to be. I have wrapped it up respectfully ; it is tine,
delicate, and noble !
Wednesday, February 28th. — The picture will be finished
to-morrow, I snail have given nineteen days to it If I had
not repainted one of the boys, it would be already finished in
fifteen days ; but he seemed, too old.
Sahirday, March 3rd. — Tony has come to see the picture.
He is highly pleased with it One of the heads is very good.
" You have never done anything so good ; it is supple and
charming in tone. Capital, it's really good. Bravo! Made-
moiselle. ' And so on for a long time. "Well, it is very good."
I cannot believe that. The draperies remain to be done, and
I also want to repaint the head of the little one, which is not
bad, but not so good as the other. He seemed to think it
really good. And yet I am not satisfied, it has not made me
joyous. Another tune I should havejumped all day lonjj.
Then why am I not delighted ? For he has never said so
much before. It is not that I suspect him of flattery. Oh !
no. I might have done still better ; it seems to me so, at all
events, ana I am going to try and succeed with the second
figure.
He is satisfied, evidently ; I should like to know what he
has said about it to the others.
Is it only relatively very good, very good for me, or is it
really good ? But I see beyond, much farther, better ; I
should like to do it over again. . . I can do better. . . .
Then?
Wednesday, March 14>th. — Julian has at last come to see
the picture ; I did not ask him ; there has only been an
exchange of letters (ftill of squabbles) on both sides. But he
feels culpable, and I triumph modestly.
He tninks it very good.
I keep him to lunch, like M. Gr6vy.
Thursday, March I5tk — There, it is done ! At three
o'clock I was still working, but everybody came, and I was
obliged to leave everything — Mme. and Mile. Canrobert,
Alice, Bojidar, Alexis, the Princess, Abbema, Mme. Kanchine !
Tony R. F. came in the morning. All this company goes
to Bastien's to see the picture L Amour an Village. — In an
orchard is a young girl, seen from the back, with her head
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PARIS, 1883. 589
bent, and a flower in her hand, she is leaning against a fence ;
on this side of the fence is a young man, seen from the front,
with his eyes lowered and looking at his fingers, which he is
twisting. It is profoundly poetic and exquisite in sentiment.
As regards execution, there is none: it is nature itself
There is a little portrait of Mme. Drouet — the old
guardian angel of Victor Hugo — which is a miracle of
truth, feeling, and likeness. These pictures have no re-
semblance one to the other, even from a distance. They
are living beings who pass before your eyes. He is not a
painter, ne is a poet, a psychologist, a metaphysician, a
creator.
His own portrait, which is there in a corner, is a chef-
d'ceuvre. And yet he has not done his utmost: that is to
say, one cannot do more or better than what he has done;
but we expect a great picture from him, where he will
attain such heights that henceforth no one will be able to
deny his genius.
The girl seen from the back, with her two short plaits
and her flower in her hand, is a poem.
No one has ever entered more fully into the reality of
life than Bastiea Nothing is more lofty, more admirably
human. The natural dimensions contribute to render the
truth of his pictures still more striking. Whom will you
mention to compare with him ? The Italians ? The painters
of religious, and naturally conventional, subjects ? borne of
them are sublime, but necessarily mechanical, and
then .... that does not touch your heart, soul, or mind.
The Spaniards ? Brilliant and charming. The French ?
Brilliant, dramatic, or academic.
Millet and Breton are poets, no doubt; but Bastien
is everything at once. He is the king of all, not only
by his miraculous execution, but by his depth of intense
feeling. It is impossible to push observation further, and
the genius of observation is almost the whole of human
genius, as Balzac has said. I am writing, seated on the
ground, just before going to bed. I felt obliged to relate
all that.
Thursday, March Vftnd. — Yesterday I called in two
experts, who have built up for tne frame- work of the statue
on a large scale from the little one that I made in clay.
And to-day I have drawn it, and given it the desired move-
ment. ... I am very much taken with it. The picture
of the holy women I will try to do this summer, and in
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590 MARIE BASHEIRT8EFF.
sculpture my great idea is Ariadne. Meanwhile, I am doing
this woman, wno is, in fact, the upright figure — the figure
of the other Mary in the picture : but in sculpture, without
clothes, and taking a young woman, it would make an
adorable Nausicaa. She has let her head fall between her
hands, and she weeps. There is in the pose such real
abandon — despair so complete, so young, so sincere, so sad,
that I am very much taken with it
Nausicaa, daughter of the king of the Phseacians, is
one of the most charming figures of antiquity. A figure
of secondary rank, but an attractive, touching, and interest-
ing figure.
I am absolutely of Ouida's opinion, who would have
liked to strangle old Penelope, and marry Ulysses to that
ideal girl, leaning against a column of rose marble in her
father's palace, and falling in love with that intriguing
ITlysses at the recital of his adventures. No word is ex-
changed between them: he departs, the worthy citizen, to
return to his country and his business. And Nausicaa
remains on the shore, looking at the great white sail as
it passes away, and when everything, down to the blue
horizon, is vacant, she lets her head fall upon her hands,
and with her fingers on her face and in her hair, careless
of her beauty, her shoulders raised, and her bosom
crushed by her arms — she weeps.
Suiiday, March 2Wi. — Since two o'clock yesterday I
have been in a state of anxiety that will be understood
when I have said why.
Villevielle comes to see me, and asks if I have any
news from the Salon.
"No, certainly not"
"What! you know nothing?"
" Nothing."
" But you have passed ? "
" I know nothing of it"
"No doubt, for they have only got to letter C."
And that is all. I write with difficulty. My hands
tremble ! I feel shattered all in pieces, so to say.
Then Alice comes and says, " You are accepted ! "
" Accepted in what manner ? Without a number ? "
" Nothmg is known of that yet"
I had no doubt about my admission
And thereupon mamma, my aunt, and everybody else is
in a state of disquietude, which worries me in the highest
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PARIS, 1883. 591
degree. I have made great efforts to be the same as usual
and to receive people.
M. Laporte came, but I was dressing.
I sent forty messages, and five minutes afterwards I
received a note from Julian which I copy exactly : —
" simplicity, sublime ignorance ; I am going to
dissipate you now.
" Accepted with No. 3 at least, for I know some one who
wanted a No. 2 for you. And now that you are conqueror,
greeting and felicitations."
I am not enraptured, but at least tranquil.
I do not think that No. 1 itself could give me pleasure,
after twenty-four hours of humiliating anxieties. It is said
that joy is keener after suffering. Not in my case. Difficul-
ties, anxieties, sufferings, spoil everything for ma
Tuesday, March 27th. — I have just been looking into the
Odyssey. Homer does not describe the scene that I have
imagined. It is true that it must come as the logical
and inevitable conclusion of the preceding actions; but, he
does not give it However, the speech, nill of praise and
admiration of Ulysses, when he meets Nausicaa, must
inevitably have excited her; she explains the rest to her
companions.
She takes him for a god, and he returns the com-
pliment .... So that's how it is.
I shall read again the words of Ulyssea When he
appears naked and oozy before the young Pheeacian girls
tney all take to flight, Nausicaa alone remains.
" It is Minerva who gives her this courage." This old man
of the world, this old intriguer, still very handsome, wants
clothes and protection, so he compares Nausicaa to Diana;
therefore, she must be tall, elegant, and slender. " And his
eyes," he says, " have never seen a mortal like her." He then
compares her to a palm which rendered him mute with
surprise at Delos, near the altar of Apollo, in a journey
that he made there with a large number of followers, and this
journey has been the source of his greatest misfortunes.
Thus in a few words he lavishes on her the most delicate
flatteries, showing himself in a light at once poetic, majestic,
and worthy of Uie most lively interest owing to his mis-
fortunes ; he seems persecuted by the gods.
To me it seems impossible that this young girl, whose
intelligence and beauty make her the equal of the immortals,
should not be seized by an extraordinary sentiment, especially
N N
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592 MARIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
in the frame of mind into which she has been cast by her
previous dream.
Friday, March 30th. — To-day I have worked until six
o'clock ; at six o'clock, as there is still daylight, I have opened
the door of the balcony to hear the church bells and breathe
the spring air while playing on the harp.
I am calm, I have worked well, then I washed, and
dressed myself in white ; I have played some music, and now
I am writing; tranquil, satisfied, enjoying this interior
arranged by myself, where I have everything to my hand;
it would he so lovely to live this life .... awaiting
fortune ; and even if it came I would sacrifice two months
a year to it, and for the other ten months I would remain
shut up and working. .... It is the only way, besides, to get
the two months in question. What torments me is that I
shall have to marry. Then there would no longer be any of
these base disquietudes of vanity from which I do not
escape.
Why does she not marry? They say I am taken for
five-and-twenty, and that enrages me ; whereas once
married .... Yes, but to whom ? If I were, as once, in
health .... But now it must be a man who is kind and
delicate. He must love me, for I am not rich enough to
marry one who would leave me quite to myself.
In all this I am taking no account of my own heart One
cannot foresee everything, and then it depends. .... And
then, perhaps, it will never come to pass ? .... I have just
received the following letter : —
"Palais des Champs- Uly sees.
"Association of French Artists for the
Annual Exhibition of Fine Arts.
" Mademoiselle, — I am writing to you on the very table
of the committee-room, to tell you that the head in pastel
has met with a real success from the jury. I send you all
my congratulations on the occasion. I have no need to tell
you that your paintings have been very well received.
" This year it is a real success for you, and I am re-
joiced at it « with friendly greetings,
" Tony Robert Fleury."
Ah, well ! What then ? . . . . The letter itself is
going to be pinned up here ; only it will be necessary for
me to show it for a tew days. Do yoxi think that I am
mad with joy? I am very calm. Doubtless I do not
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PARIS, 1883. 593
deserve to experience a great joy, since such a pleasant
piece of news tinds me in such a state of mind, that it all
seems very ordinary. And since they write it to me, it
loses all its value. If I knew of such a letter to Breslau,
or to any other girl, I should be excessively disturbed at
it. It is not that I value only what I have not got, but it
is through excessive modesty. I have no confidence ; if
I believed it as it stands, I should be too satisfied ; so I am
cautious, like one who fears that " it can't be true, because
it is too good." ... I fear to rejoice too soon .... and for
something trifling ; in short .... «f
Saturday, March Slst — But I have been with Julian this
morning to have the pleasant things repeated to me. It
appears that Bouguereau said to him :
" You have a Russian girl who has sent something which
is not bad, not bad."
"And you know," adds Julian, "that in Bouguereau's
mouth this is enormous when it does not concern his
pupils."
At all events, it seems that I shall have something like an
honourable mentioa
Sunday, April 1st — I go to the Louvre this morning
with Brisbane (Alice). Not that she is very interesting, as
Breslau, for instance, would have been. There is no
exchange of ideas ; but she is good, and fairly intelligent ;
she listens to me, and I think aloud. It is an exercise.
I talk of what interests me, and of what I should desire.
Of Bastien, naturally, for he has taken an enormous place
in my conversations with Julian and Alice. I like his
Eainting extraordinarily, and I shall seem to you very
linded if I tell you that those old dusky paintings in the
Louvre make me think with pleasure of the living pictures
bathed in air, with speaking eyes, and with mouths just
about to opea
Well, that is my ijnpression this morning, I do not give it
as final
I cough, and though I do not get thinner it seems to me
that I am ill, only I do not want to think of it. But why
then have I such a healthy look, not only in colour, but in
size?
I look for the cause of my sadness and I find nothing,
unless it be that I have hardly done anything for a fort-
night
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59* MARIE BA8HKIRT8EFF.
The statue is spoiling and cracking ; all this has made
me lose an infinity of time.
To-morrow, at one o'clock, I recommence work; without
that I am not mysel£
What vexes me rather is, that this pastel should be so good,
and that the pictures are simply good. Well, I feel able to
faint as well as that now .... and you shall see ! . . .
am not sad, I am simply feverish, with a difficulty in
breathing. It is the right lung which .... is getting worse.
Oh ! fool that you are ! you see yourself burning, so to say,
and you do nothing ! Blisters ! yellow stains for a year or two !
but what are two years compared with life, beauty, and
work.
Well ! Well ! There is not even any great need of this
shoulder, and I can drape myself so well .... And what
next ... I always thinK that it will pass away somehow.
Tuesday, April 3rd. — It is very fine. I feel that I have
strength ; I think that I can do fine painting. I feel it ; I am
sure of it
The sun, spring-time, open air, that is the best season.
In summer one must escape from the heat, and in winter
from the cold ; in summer there is nothing lovely but the
mornings and evenings ; but at present it is a paradise, and
if I don't profit by it to paint in the open air, I am much
to blame.
To-morrow, then ....
I feel within me the power to render whatever strikes
me. I feel a new force, a confidence in myself, which trebles
my faculties. To-morrow I am going to begin a picture
which charms me ; then, by and by, in the autumn, during
the bad weather, another one also very interesting. It
seems to me that now every stroke will tell, and I feel an
incomparable transport in consequence.
Red-letter day — Wednesday, April 4>tk — Six street
children grouped, their heads close to one another, half
length only. The eldest is about twelve, and the youngest
six. The tallest, seen almost from the back, holds a nest,
and the others are looking on, in various and suitable
attitudes.
The sixth is a little girl of four, seen from the back,
her head raised, and her arms crossed. The description
may sound commonplace, but, in reality, all these heads
together produce something excessively interesting.
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PARI8, 1883. 595
Sunday, April 1 5th. — My disease plunges me into a state
of prostration which makes me wretched Julian writes to
me that the picture is not yet hung; that Tony cannot
promise me (sw) the line ; but as I am not yet hung . . .
what can be done will be done. That Tony has great
hopes (#ic) of some slight recompense, embracing painting
(sic) and pasteL Only two montns ago I was expecting no
such thing, and 1 remain insensible as if it did not concern
me. This honourable mention, which was to make me feel
faint, now I am told that "it is probable, almost certain,"
surprises me as if I had never believed in it. And, at the
same time, it appears to me that I shall not faint at all. Life
is logical, and prepares us for the coming events; this is
what I regret. I should like a thunderbolt: the medal
to fall from the sky without crying " Look out ! " plunging
me in an ocean of felicity. Yes, that would leave me
calm now, and I should be stunned by it like ....
Thou didst not then believe in it when thou wert
reckoning upon it
Wednesday, April 18th. — Do you know what I am doing ?
I am entering into a competition at Julian's. A woman's
figure clothed, and her hands. It is very ugly; but, as the
men's studios also will do this competition, there is the
impossible hope of beating men, and so I've started.
Only think, there are some who have taken separate
boxes. It will be judged in a month, for the four studios are
going to do the same figure, each in its turn.
If I have an honourable mention this year, I shall have
made more rapid progress than Breslau, who, before going to
Julian's, had done serious work. In short .... I have just
been playing the piano. I commenced by the two divine
marches of Chopin and Beethoven, and then I played at
haphazard I don't know what, and things so entrancing that
I am listening to myself still How curious ! I could not
recall a single note now, and if I wanted to improvise I could
not do so. The hour, the minute, or somethmg is wanting.
And what divine melodies are floating through my brain just
now ! If I had any voice, I should smg enchanting, unheard-
of, dramatic things Why ? . . . . Life is too short. One
has no time to do anything ! I should like to model without
ceasing to paint It is not so much that I want to produce
sculpture ; out I see lovely things, and I feel the imperious
need of rendering what I see.
I have learned to paint, but I have not painted because I
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596 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
wanted to do such or such a picture. And now I am going
to model in clay to give body to my visions.
Sunday, April 22nd. — Only two pastels have got
No. 1 — Breslau's and mine, tfreslau's painting is not on
the line, but her portrait of the daughter of the editor
of the Figaro is. Neither is my painting on the line,
but Tony Robert Fleury declares that it is in good view,
and that the picture below is not large. Irma's head is on
the line and in a corner ; therefore, a place of honour. So he
says I am well placed.
As there are people to dinner almost every evening, I
listen and say to myself, " Here are people who do nothing,
and who spend their life in saying silly things or talking
scandal; are they happier than I?" . . . . Their worries are
different, but they suffer as much, and they do not enjoy
anything as much as I do. They miss a multitude of
thmgs — trifles, subtleties, effects of light — which yield me
subjects of observation and delight, unknown to the
vulgar ; but I am more prone than most people to
contemplation of the splendours of nature, as well as of
the thousand details of Paris : of a passenger, an expression of
the eyes in a child or a woman, a placard, and what not How
suggestive to visit the Louvre, to cross the court, to mount
the staircase by the track made by the millions of feet which
have trodden it, to open that door ; to imagine the histories
of the people I meet there, follow them into their inner
being, picture their lives to myself in a moment ; then other
thoughts, other impressions, and it is all connected and all
diverse. There is subject for ... . How do I know ? And
if, since I sometimes near less well, I am inferior to every
one else, there are perhaps compensations.
Oh ! no. Everytxxly knows it, and the first thing that
must be said when I am mentioned is, " Do you know she is
rather deaf ? " I can't imagine how I can write it down. . .
Can one get accustomed to such misery ? Let it happen to
an old man, to an old woman, to a miserable wretch ; Dut to
a young being, living, thrilling, mad for life I
Friday, April 27tL — Tony came to see me yester-
day, and stayed for an hour They have spoken about
my large picture, and the aforesaid Tony entertains serious
fears.
He gives me great encouragement to do the six boys.
It is very difficult, but after all I have only to copy.
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PARIS, 1883. 597
" One has nothing to do but copy! " " Copy ? " It
is easily said; but to copy without an artistic concep-
tion, without an inward idea, is dull indeed. But it is
needful to copy with the mind just as much as with the
eyes. I do not say all that to Tony. He would under-
stand it, but he would tack on to it ideas of classical
interpretation that I vehemently reject. After all, he says
that .... in a picture of that order there are things to
be known of which I have no notion. For example, the
draperies. . . . Qu'te aco ?
" Very well, Monsieur, I will do my draperies, since there
are draperies, as I do the modern clothes."
"That will be frightful/'
"But why? Were not the people I am going to paint
living and modern?"
"Yes, but there are things in art that must be known.
You cannot do draperies anyhow ! You must arrange them."
"Cannot I, an artist, arrange draperies of 1883 in my
own fashion? Am I to copy them without choosing? Is
not choice one of the artist s prerogatives ? "
"Just so; but you will not find your picture ready
made in nature."
I do not reply ; it might lead to my saying something
foolish to him. But then .... I shall not find my
picture ready made in nature. Ah, indeed! What does
that matter?
But my picture is in my head. And nature will provide
me with the means of executing it. . . .
It is clear that a certain feeling must govern all
this. ... If I possess this feeling, all will go well, but if
I do not possess it, no studies of draperies will give it
to me.
I want a landscape nearly like that I imagine, and it
is not intricate.
And I want two women, whom I have found — one, the
pale one, is astonishing: the other is also capital.
And then ? And then I want a place somewhere in the
country, and fine weather to do my figures. And the
landscape can be done after studies brought from the
south.
And then ? The difficulty is that I shall not do it
this year.
I shall only be able to go there in November; and
unless I do it entirely there, I shall have to wait imtil
the summer to execute it.
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598 MARIE BA8HKTRT8EFF.
Now, I feel a profound and irresistible conviction that
it will be beautiful ! And it is certain, too, that one's
strength increases tenfold when one works con amove.
It seems to me that a certain impulse can make up
for almost everything. I will give you proofs of it For .
instance, for six or seven years I have given up playing
the piano, and except for just a few pieces occasionally, 1
have remained for months without touching it, and then
played, all at once, for live or six hours in the day once
a year. Under those conditions, one's touch is gone, so I
can play nothing before people, and any school-girl could
beat me.
Well, then, if I hear a masterpiece, like Chopin's march,
or Beethoven's, if I am taken with it, and filled with the
desire to play it, in a few days — in two or three days —
and by playing an hour a day at most, I succeed in play-
ing it quite excellently — as well as anybody, as Dusawtois,
who gamed the first prize at the Conservatoire, and who
practises,
Saturday, April 2Sth. — The Russian Easter.
Sunday, April 29th. — Varnishing day to-morrow. My
picture is not on the line, and my dress is ugly, and ....
Come, this is foolish and unworthy of me. Here is the
truth : I have to do my six boys, life-size, standing at the
corner of the street, near a lamp. I shall be interrupted for
a month by the Russian tour, after which I shall come back
and finish them ; this will probably bring me to October. In
October I start for Jerusalem, and I shall stay there. That
will depend. If there is any means of doing the picture there,
I will stay for three or four months ; if not, I will stay there
for a month, and return in November-December with some
studies, to set out again for the south, where I shall be
able to paint my figures in the open air, making use of the
landscapes brought back with me. In January, it will take
me to raris, where I will do the painting of the interior, less
than life-size, for which I brought the idea from Mont-Dore —
the choir-boy.
I shall at the same time press forward the statue, on which
I shall be able to work all the time at Paris, that is to say,
July, August, September, and January, February, and March.
However, I do not think that the choir-boy will be done if I
do the holy women, and vice versd.
They may truly say that I waste myself, that I spend my
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PARIS, 1883. 599
strength, and exhaust myself for trifles, and that it is a great
pity. What, it depends upon me to be strong, and I cannot !
Come then, let us see !
The attempt must be made. I want to concentrate myself
Monday, April 30th. — I have the pleasure of talking
with Bastien-Lepage. He has explained his Ophelia to me.
Well!
He is not an every-day artist of ordinary talent. He con-
ceives his subject in a truly typical manner. What he told
me about it was drawn from the inmost recesses of the soul.
It is indeed fine to understand art after this fashion ; to feel it
as he feels. Ophelia is not simply a crazy girl in his eyes,
she is love's martyr, and represents immense disenchantment,
bitterness, despair, the end of everything — love's martyr, with
a touch of madness. It is the most touching, saddest, most
despairing figure. . . .
I am crazy about it How glorious is genius ! This little
plain man seems more beautiful and more attractive than an
angeL You would like to spend your life in listening to him,
and in following him in his sublime works. After all, he speaks
so simply. He replied to something that was said to him, " I
find so much poetry in nature," with an accent of such frank
sincerity that I feel penetrated by its inexpressible charm.
I exaggerate, I feel that I exaggerate. But, after all, there's
something in it
Then we go out together, and there is a charming moment,
before leaving, when we all meet — Carolus, Tony R. F.,
Jules Bastien; Emile Bastien, Carrier-Belleuse, Edelfeldt, and
Saint-Marceaux.
Tuesday, May 1st. — And the Salon? Well, it is worse
than usuaL
Dagnan has not exhibited ; Sargent is mediocre ; Gervex
ordinary ; Henner enchanting. It is a nude woman reading.
Artificial light, and the whole bathed in a sort of vapour,
but of a tone so perfectly adorable that one feels quite
enveloped in this marvellous, magical vapour. Jules Bastien
admires it immensely. A picture by Cazin, which I do not
like as well as his touching landscapes ; it is Judith leaving
the town to go to Holofernes. I have not looked enough at it
to undergo " the charm which must exhale from it " ; but what
strikes you is that Judith's appearance does not excuse the
infatuation of Holofernes.
Bastien-Lepage's picture does not carry me away corn-
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600 MARIE BASHKIBT8EFF.
pletely. The two figures are irreproachable. His girl seen
from the back, the head — of which only the cheek is visible —
and that hand twisting a flower, all snow poetry, sentiment,
and observation carried to the last degree.
That back is a poem ; the hand, which is scarcely seen,
a masterpiece. One feels what he wanted to express. The
girl lowers her head a little, and does not know what to do
with her feet, which have a pose of charming embarrassment
The young man is excellent, too ; but the gin is grace, youth,
poetry itself It is true, correct, and deeply felt; it is fine
and delicate !
But the landscape is quite disagreeable. Leaving alone
that the place need not have been so green, it should have
been executed in such a manner as not to mix with the
foreground. It wants air. Why ? They say that the back-
ground is pasty. At all events it is heavy.
And Breslau ? Breslau is good, but one feels dissatisfied.
For though the painting is good, the picture tells you
nothing: it is pretty, but common, in tone. People drink-
ing tea near the nearth. A bourgeois interior, without
character. A dark girl, a fair one, and a young man. They
look very grave. It wants the feeling of home. I should
have thought it would have been more concentrated and
more domestic. It expresses nothing. She who talks so
much of feeling does not appear to me gifted in that
line. . . . Her portrait is gooa, but that is alL
And myself?
Well, lrma's head is pleasing, and the painting is
pretty vigoroua But there is little in it
And the picture appeared to me sombre, and though it
was painted in the open air, does not look like it The wall
does not look like a wall — it is a painted sky, a canvas,
anything you please. The heads are good, but this back-
ground is disastrous. However, it deserves a better place,
especially when one sees such inferior things on the Una
Everybody agrees in saying that the heads are very good,
especially that of the eldest It is probable that I might
have been able to do the rest better, for it is comparatively
easy, but I had not time.
On looking at my picture as it hung there, I have
learnt more than in six months at the studio. The Salon
is a great teacher. ... I have never understood it so
welL
Wednesday, May 2nd. — I was to have gone to the
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PARIS, 1883. 601
Op6ra, but what's the good of it? That is to say, I
thought for a moment of going, in order that it might
reach Bastion's ears that 1 had looked beautiful. But
what for? I don't know. After all, it's silly! Is it not
absurd that I should please people I don't care at all
about? and that in return ....
I must have a care, especially as I should have my
labour for my pains, for after all I have no serious designs
against this great artist. Should I marry him ? No ; well,
wnat then ?
After all, why always probe the most hidden depths ?
I have a wild, crazy desire to please this great man, and
that's alL And Saint-Marceaux, too. Which of them
most? It doesn't matter. One of them would be
enough for me. It is an interest .... in life. My
face is changed by it — - 1 look much prettier ; my
skin is smooth, fresh, velvety, my eyes lively and brilliant
After all, it is curious. Wnat could real love do when
such silly trifles produce this effect.
Friday, May Uh. — After all, that is not the question.
Jules Bastien dined here this evening. I acted neither the
child nor the wild girl — I was neither foolish nor mischievous.
He was simple, gay, charming. We had some fan. Not
an irksome moment. He is very intelligent, but I do not
allow of specialities for genius. A man of genius can be
and must Tbe everything he wishes.
And he is lively. I feared that I should find him
insensible to pleasantry, which, to be subtle, must hit the
just mean between wit and nonsense. In short, like
Koland's mare, he has every good quality. . . . Except
that he is dead .... or httle short of it. Is it not
ridiculous ?
Sunday, May 6th. — Quite a sensation about young
Rochegrosse's large picture.
Astyanax, the son of Andromache, is being torn from
her to be cast from the ramparts.
It is the antique treatecl in an original and inodem
manner.
He follows nobody, and draws his inspiration from no
one. Colour and painting are of unparalleled vigour.
There is at present no one else who coula do it. Add to
this that he is the son-in-law of Theodore de Banville — hence
the crush.
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602 MARIE BA8BKTRT8EFF.
After all, notwithstanding this detail, he is of prodi-
gious power. He is only twenty-four, and it is his second
exhibit
It is just what it should be — composition, drawing, colour
are of incomparable. dash.
His talent corresponds to his name. Listen : Rochegrosse
Georges Rochegrosse. It has the roll of thunder.
And after tne idyllic Bastien-Lepage Georges Rochegrosse
comes on you like a torrent ; it is possible that later on his
talent will take a more compressed form, and that he will
seek after the quintessence of feeling and psychology like
Bastien-Lepage.
And myself ? . . . what does my name express ? Mark
BasMcirtseff ... I will change it, for it has a certain strange
and harrowed effect, though not without promise of brilliancy ;
it has even a certain style — something proud and stirring,
but it is jerky and imeasy. Is not Tony Robert Fleury as
cold as an epitaph? And Bonnat sounds correct Mid
vigorous, but limited and without lustre. Manet sounds
like an incomplete being, a pupil full of promise at fifty.
Breslau is sonorous, calm, powerful. Saint-Marceaux is like
Bashkirtseff, very nervous but less troubled Henner is
mysterious and calm, with an indefinable grace like the
antique . . .
Carolus Duran is a disguise. Dagnan is subtle, close,
clever, gentle and strong, but with not much else. Sargent
makes one think of his painting, a counterfeit Velasquez
of the counterfeit Carolus, less than Velasquez, but good all
the same.
Monday, May 7 th. — I am beginning the boys . all over
again; I am making them life-size, on a much larger
canvas; it is more entertaining.
Tuesday, May 8th. — I live in my art, going down to
dinner and speaking to nobody.
I feel that I have entered upon a new phase.
Everything looks small and devoid of interest, everything
outside of what one produces. Life might be lovely, taken
thus.
Wednesday, May 9th. — This evening we have a special
set, which would much shock our customary society, but
which amuses me excessively.
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PARIS, 1883. 603
Jules Bastien does not waste himself, he who so strongly
preaches economy of mind, strength, and everything in order
to concentrate all upon one point. Well ! I think that in
me there is such an exuberance of everything that if I did
not expend myself I could not endure it No doubt if
conversation or laughter exhausts you, you do well to ab-
stain . . . However, ne must be right
We go up to the studio, and of course my great canvas
is turned against the wall, and I almost fight with Bastien
to prevent nim from seeing it, for he had wedged himself
between the canvas and the wall
I exaggerate Saint-Marceaux, and Jules Bastien says that
he is jealous of him and that he is going to oust him little
by little.
He repeated it several times, and the other day also ;
well, if it oe only a pleasantry it enraptures me.
He must think that Saint-Marceaux is more adored than
he is, artistically speaking of course. I am always asking
him : — " You like him, too, do you not ? "
" Yes, very much."
"Do you like him as much as I do?"
" Ah ! no, I am not a woman ; I like him, but . . ."
"But it is not as a woman that I like hiin!"
"Nevertheless there is something of that in your admi-
ration."
" No, no, I swear to you."
" Yes, yes, it is unconscious ! "
" Ah ! can you think ! . . ."
"Yes, and I am jealous of him; I am not a fine dark
fellow ..."
"He is like Shakespeare."
" You see . . . "
The real Bastien is going to hate me ! Why ? I don't
know ; I am afraid of him. We are hostile one to the
other, there are inexplicable trifling things that one feels.
We are not in sympathy, and I hesitate to say things
before him which might make him . . . perhaps like me a
little.
We think alike about art, and I do not dare to speak
before him. Is it because I feel that he does not like me ?
After all, there is something. ....
Saturday, May 12th. — I spend the morning at the studio
talking with the ladies, and I catch Julian for an instant to
beg him to come and see the boya
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604 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
You understand, I do not want advice, but only the public
impression ; now Julian represents the thinking majority.
He has come to dinner, the canvas has had to be brought
from the Home ; he has seen both First, the boys ; there
are six of them; there is a tall one, almost seen from the
back, showing something he has in his hand to the other five
who are grouped round him. The street is seen for some
distance, and m the distance two or three little girls who
are going away. He insists roundly on my taking out the
lamp which was in the left-hand corner ; he is right As
regards the rest, he thinks that it is original, amusing;
and that it is almost certain to be a success — much better
than the two boys of the Salon, especially the knavish side
of the chief boy, who is almost a youth, one of those whom
the little ones call big fellows.
This evening Julian has been perfect, serious, delicate, and
kind. He did not tease or chaff me, and when I call his
attention to it, he says it depends upon what I show him, and
that I am in a fair wav to make a fresh start
We talked of the noly women. I explain to him how I
understand it We had a good laugh at T. R F.'s draperies.
Can these women have lovely draperies of blue or maroon
cashmere ? They followed Jesus for months, they were the
revolutionary women, the Louise Michels, the reprobates of
those times ; they were outside the pale of elegance and fashion.
And during the davs that the great drama — the judgment
and the crucifixion — lasted, can they have been otherwise
than in rags, or nearly so ? Julian says that it may be either
sublime or a failure. And that I must look well to the
Magdalen, for I want to put a world into that figure,
and .... in that class the greatest artists have experienced
failures.
However, I have started ! My picture is there ! It is quite
finished ; I see it and feel it Nothing in the world would
change anything in it; no journey, no scenery, no advice.
The effect as sketched pleases Julian. But it is not yet what
I want I know at what hour it must take place : at the hour
when the outlines become confused, the calinness contrasting
with what has just taken place, and, in the distance, some
human figures are going away after having buried Christ;
only the two women have remained, sunk in stupor. The
Magdalen, in profile; her elbow on her right knee and her
chin in her hand, with an eye that sees nothing, fixed on
the entrance to the sepulchre, her left knee touching the
ground and her left arm hanging down.
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PARIS, 1883. 605
The other Mary is standing a little to the back ; her head
in her hands and her shoulders raised ; only her hands are
visible, and the pose must reveal an outburst of tears, of
weariness, of relapse, of despair ; her head is buried in her
hands, and her body shows a state of utter collapse and
complete loss of strength. All is over. Julian thinks that
this impulse is very fine ; that she does not trouble herself
about tne people ; that she is there for herself, given up
to her wretchedness.
The woman sitting down will be the most difficult She
must express stupor, amazement, despair, prostration, and
rebellion. And it is this rebellion which is the most delicate
thing to render. A world, a world !
And it is I who undertake that ! Well/yes, it is I, and it
depends only on me, and it is impossible not to do it, if God
wills. Ah ! He must know that 1 fear Him, and that I fall on
my knees to pray Him to allow me to work I do not deserve
either favour or nelp, but only that He will let me alone.
But it miriit be a failure, a failure in the eyes of the public ;
it will, none tne less, be a lovely thing.
And I shall have my boys to console me.
It will be too lovely !
My Salon picture aoes not interest me. I did it for want
of a better, bemg short of time.
Tiwsday, May \bth. — But that is not the question. What
is, then ? . . . That it is fine, that the moon is lovely, that the
sky is beautiful, that the stars make one think of a picture by
Cazin, and that there is nothing besides art My mind is
at ease at not having to go away again, and to be able to
finish the boys, then the fisher, and then the boy reading on a
bench, and tnen paint about a score of sunsets. . . .
Wednesday, May 16th. — It is so warm that one is alive
only in the evening. I return home, highly delighted with
all these quiet rooms, with the infinite sky.
However, spring does not induce sentiment, but childlike
trifling.
One hears the railway whistle, and the church bell of the
Rue Br^montier. ... It is very poetic. . . .
On these lovely evenings tnere ought to be trips into the
country, on the water ; to the devil with society ; wnat society ?
... I think of all this, Paris of the Champs-£lys£es, and of the
Bois, which lives .... while I — am yonder, in America. Am
I doing well or ill to throw away my youth as food for
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606 MARIE BASHKIRT8EFF.
ambitions, which. ... In short, shall I receive the intereston
the capital invested?
The whistle is very harmonious in the night A number
of people are coming back from the country tired, dreamy,
happy, drunk, exhausted.
Always the whistle. .
When I am celebrated .... and that will perhaps be in
a year's time. ... I am very patient, as if I were sure. . . .
The whistle, continually .... and it is said when one
hears the whistle in this way, that the weather is stormy,
and that makes me think of what Domingo says in Paul aild
Virginia, about the storm which is on the point of bursting.
very difficult to read Balzac in this state of mind ; but
[ will read nothing by any one else, so as not to excite my
head.
Still the bell and the whistle.
Friday, May 18tk — To desire Bastien-Lepage's friendship
so much is to give too great an importance to tnat sentiment,
to disfigure it, so to say, and to place myself in a false and
disproportionate position in my own eyes. This friendship
would have been very agreeable to me, like that of a
Cazin or of a Saint-Marceaux ; but I am vexed at having
thought of his private life, and, in short, he is not glorious
enough for that He is not an artist-god, as Wagner has
just been ; it is only under those conditions that the idea oi
great admiration would be admissible.
What I aim at is to have an interesting salon, and every
time this hope begins to be realised some distraction occurs.
Just now mamma nas started off, papa is dying, perhaps.
I had the project of giving a dinner once a week, followed
by a reception for society people on Thursday, for instance,
and on Saturday another dinner for artists ; the principal
celebrities woula also appear at the Thursday receptions,
having dined on the preceding Saturday. . . .
And then all has gone adrift. . . . But I will begin again
next year ; calm, as though I were strong ; patient, as though
I were eternal ; and persevering, as though I were encouraged.
Now, let God remain neutral, and I will be as grateful to
Him for it as for a benefit
Friday, May 18th. — I am going to paint a decorative
panel : Spring. A woman leaning against a tree, with her
eyes closed, and smiling as in a lovely dream ; and all around
a delicate landscape, tender green, pale roses, apple-trees and
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PARIS, 1883. 607
peach-trees in blossom, fresh shoots, all that renders spring so
enchanting in its colour.
It has never been done faithfully. Spring landscapes
have been recently painted, but old people or washer-
women or lepers nave been introduced into them. But
what I want is an exclusive use of " enchanting tones."
Thousands of spring-times have been done — card-board
copies — executed with tact Bastien is the only one who
might have thought as I do, and he has not yet done so.
This woman must have the appearance of feeling all the
harmonies of tone, of odour, and of the song of birds.
There must be sunshine in it. Bastien has only painted
open-air grey and in shadow.
I want sun in it, and I will do it at Nice in an
orchard, and if I find a very poetic orchard the woman
shall be nude.
One must hear the murmur of the brook which runs
at her feet, as at Granda, amid tufts of violets, with
patches of sunshine here and there.
• I shall ask spring for tones which sing to the soul.
I must have tender, ravishing greens, and pale, enchant-
ing pinks, and no dull, yellowish tints.
A revelry of sweet notes ! It must be of enchanting
colour, with patches of sunshine which come here and
there, and give life and a certain beginning of mystery
to the shade.
Do you understand?
But Bastien is doing, or going to do, the burial of a
girL Now, if he is intelligent, he will use for the scenery
a landscape such as I imagine. I hope that he will not
have so much penetration, and that he will treat us to a
landscape in atrocious green . . . However, I should be
vexed if he did not make a sublime picture of this
subject
And I hope that he has had my ideas, though hoping
at the same time that he has not got them. ... I, how-
ever, see his burial of a girl in a flowery meadow, with
fruit-trees in blossom, or roses from which one could pick the
leaves, and coarse heads of peasants as contrasts. All
the poetry will be concentrated in the coffin and in the
landscape.
I will not talk to him about anything.
Svmday, May 20th. — Mamma has arrived on Thursday
night or Friday morning. We had a telegram on Saturday,
o o
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608 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
in which she says that my father's health is wretched To-
day his valet writes that nis condition is hopeless.
They say he suffers a great deal I am glad that
mamma arrived in time.
To-raorrow the Salon is to be closed for three days to
make the awards. It re-opens on Thursday.
I dreamed that a coffin was placed upon my bed, and
they said there was a girl inside it Ajad it shone like
phosphorus in the night . . .
Tuesday, May 22nd. — I work until half-past sevea
But at every sound, every ring at the bell, every barking
of Coco, my heart sinks to my heels. How true that ex-
pression is! It occurs also in Russian. It is nine o'clock
m the evening, and no news. There are emotions for you!
If I get nothing, it will be very tiresome. They have
said so much beforehand at the studio — and Julian,
Lefebvre, and Tony among them, all together — that it is
impossible for me not to have it But it is not at all
kind: they might have sent me word by telegraph — one
never hears good news soon enough. ... If .... if I
had got anything, I should know it Dy this time. What
then?
It gives me a slight headache.
Not, however, because it is so important, but it has
been given out .... and then, too, uncertainty is odious
in everything.
Ana my heart beats and beats. . . . Wretched life!
All and everything and nothing. . . . And all for what?
To end in death !
Mme. X died, after severe sufferings, in the midst
of her sorrowing family. M. Z died suddenly at his
ch&teau in . There was nothing to announce such a
premature end. ... Or again — Mme. Y has been re-
moved from the tender care of her relatives. She was
ninety-nine years of age. . . .
And nobody escapes it! ... . And everyone ends
like that.
To end! To end/ To exist no longer! There's the
horror. To have enough genius to live ior ever ! . . . . Or
to write silly things with feverish hand, because the
announcement of a wretched honourable mention has to be
waited for.
A letter has just come ; my heart stops beating. It is
from Doucet, about a bodice.
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PARIS, 1883. 609
I am going to take a little laudanum again to calm
myself. To see this agitation, one would say that I had
just been dreaming about my holy women. The picture is
sketched ; when I work at it or think about it I am in just
such a state as I am this evening.
I feel incapable of doing anything ! . . . .
A quarter past nine. Impossible that the prudent
Julian should have been so positive, and that it should
not come to pass! .... But, on the other hand, this
silence? ....
It affects my legs ; and is like a flame which envelops the
whole body and burns the cheeks I have had bad
dreams
It is only twenty-five minutes past nine.
Julian ought to have come; he should have come, he
knew it about six o'clock ; he should have come to dinner.
Is there nothing then ?
I believed that I had been refused, and that was not at all
probable. But in this case it is very probable.
I have been watching the vehicles ; they pass by.
.... Oh ! it is too late now.
There is no medal of honour for painting, and Dalou has
obtained the one for sculpture.
What does that matter to me ?
Should I have given Bastien the medal of honour ? No.
He can do something better than that Amour au Village, so
he does not deserve it They might have given it to him for
his sublime Jeanne d'Arc, the landscape of which displeased
me three years ago.
I should like to see it again.
Thursday, May 24>th. — I have it, and am re-assured and
at rest ; I do not say happy, I might say satisfied. ....
I learn it through the papers; those gentlemen did not
take the trouble to write a word.
Listen to history. I believe in, " Nothing happens either
as you fear, or as you hope."
I was wondering how it would happen, shall I have it or
shall I not; I know the effect produced, because the day
before yesterday and yesterday evening I thought I had not
got it. And if I have, well, it will be very pleasant I can
perfectly imagine what it would .... be like. What is going
to happen, then ? From which side will the surprise come ?
To have it without having it, and not to have it though
having it.
oo2
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610 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
At half-past nine o'clock we go to the Salon, and at our
door we meet Bojidar, beaming radiantly, with his father,
coming to congratulate me. We take the young man with us.
When I reacn my room, I see my picture in a different
place; it has been put higher, above a large picture of
tulips of a blinding colour, and signed by a ninth-rate
artist Then the presentiment that the inscription, Honour-
able mention, would be attached to Irma seems possible ; I
run to it
At last I go to the odious pastel and find it there.
I make but one leap to Julian's, and remain there
for more than half an hour, scarcely able to speak. I could
have cried He seems very much astonished How is it?
for since the opening of the Salon, since my pictures had
been seen, there had been no more question about the pastel ;
and then he had felt sure that I should be moved and placed
on the line.
In fact, the reward, even when granted in another section,
seems to be a protection against Doing skyed in this way !
He seems most sympathetic as he writes pressing and
persuasive messages to Cot, Lefebvre, and Tony R F. But it
is very late. "Honourable mention," for the pastel — it is
absurd ! Yet, let it pass ! But to sky my picture ! It makes
me cry all alone in my room as I write it
" Honourable mention " to the pastel is an insult, a stu-
pidity, an annoyance .... but to displace the pictura . . .
I take God and all honourable people as witnesses. Last
year second medals were given to pictures far inferior to
mine. And this year, too, every one will tell vou that
it is true. I am considered to have good ground for my
indignation.
I can't conceive so much bad faith, such underhand
dealings ! I can't understand this artistic electoral kit-
chen.
It is infamous. When shall I be as vulgar-minded as the
others, and cease to be indignant at these things ? I allow
that real talent will show itself Agreed But one must
be launched, to begin with.
Bastien-Lepage himself was supported at first by his
master, M. CabaneL
When a pupil is promising, his master ought to hold his
head above the water for an instant If he keeps afloat, he is
somebody ; if not, so much the worse for him. Oh ! I shall
succeed
Only this is a hindrance, and not through my fault
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PARIS, 1883. 611
Not to make use of certain advantages is as revolting as
an injustice !
Boiidar and Dina went to the administration to protest,
but of course it was in vain. Bojidar pilfered the famous
inscription and brought me this piece of cardboard with the
words Honourable Mention. I immediately fastened it on
Coco's tail, who was so frightened that he was afraid to
move. In short, I am distressed, vexed, and unhappy. My
picture being skyed is excruciating. But to those around me
my despair was an amusing sight; I am always affording
people amusement, and when 1 feel inclined to cry, I say
runny things; one must not tire people, one must always
be a diversion, a novelty .... I appear to be so because
I wish it.
Friday, June \st. — The boys who are sitting to me exas-
perate me to madness! I have their parents' authority to
smack them, and to-day I seized one of them and flung liim
to the ground like a parcel — perfectly enraged. And then ?
.... And then nothing. .
Wednesday, June 6th — I am crushed to the ground by my
ears. (What a fine simile.) You will understand my suffer-
ings when I tell you that the days when I can hear well are
like happy events. Can you grasp the horror of such a pre-
occupation !
And my nerves are over-excited, really to an extra-
ordinary degree ! My work suffers from it ; I paint, being
all the time consumed by imaginary apprehensions. 1
imagine a number of horrors ; my imagination runs away with
me ; I sustain every kind of ignominy ; I invent obloquies,
fearing to see them come true. I go on painting, and I
think of what may be said of me, and I invent such horrors
that I sometimes start up and go to the other end of the
garden like a lunatic, uttering indignant exclamations. Ah !
this must produce nice painting! I ought to take some
shower baths. And to-nignt I am going to write to mamma
to remind her of the embassy, or I shall go mad ; it is
begun.
Sunday, June \0th. — As there is no risk of meeting
anybody at the Salon on Sunday, I go there in the
morning.
There are really some abominably unjust rewards.
There is always a crowd before the new picture of young
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612 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Rochegrosse. It is unquestionably very powerful, but leaves
me unimpressed But what does not leave me so ?
To feel emotion I must get up the steam first, and then
by dint of trying I attain a great state of exaltation . . .
which is factitious. Still there's Jeanne d'Arc . . . Yes, it is
true, and then ? And a few other things too.
At the Louvre ? Well, there are the portraits ; as for
those big ancient things .... but the portraits and the
delicious things of the French school !
And at the last exhibition of portraits of the century,
there were those of Lawrence and two or three by Bastien :
the one of his brother, of Andr6 Theuriet, of Sarah. And
then .... and then, who told you that I am an artist in
painting ?
Driven in another direction, except in mathematics, I
should have reached the same point by the force of intelli-
gence and will
But I have a passion for music, I could compose with
ease. Then why paint ? But what to put in its place ? It is
miserable to have such thoughts. .
I want to paint a great picture, and large in size. I am
looking for a subject ... I nave an ancient one : Ulysses
telling his adventures to the king of the Phseacians, Alcinous.
Alcinous and the queen are on their throne, surrounded by
princes and young people and their household The scene
is laid in a gallery with rose-coloured pillars. Nausicaa,
leaning against one of these pillars a little way behind her
parents, is listening to the hero. It is after the feast and
the song of the poet Demodocus who is right in the back-
ground, and is looking out of doors, with his lute resting
on his knees, in a state of indifference, like a singer who no
longer obtains a hearing. In all this, there are attitudes,
groups, and in fact composition.
That is not what troubles me, that will be all right ; but
to carry it out — there's the rub.
I know nothing— no, nothing ! furniture, costumes, ac-
cessories. And then to do such a large thing, what researches
are necessary! . . . And one must know wnat Tony Robert
Fleury calls the qualities or the . . . What ?
Monday, June Uth. — My father is dead.
The telegram was received this morning at ten o'clock,
that is to say just this instant My aunt and Dina down-
stairs were saying that mamma must come back at once
without waiting for the funeral. I came up here, very much
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PARIS, 1883. 613
moved, but not crying. But when Rosalie came to show
me the arrangement of a dress, I said to her, " It is not
worth while, Monsieur is dead," and I began to cry without
restraint. Am I guilty of any wrongs against him ? I don't
think so. I have always tried to be amiable . . . but at
such a time one always feels guilty of something ... I
ought to have gone with mamma . . . He was only fifty.
So much suffering ! . . . and having, in short, done no harm
to anybody. Very much loved in his home, perfectly
honourable, upright, an enemy of all underhand dealing, and
a thorough gooa fellow.
Wednesday, June I3tk. — I think that if I had the mis-
fortune to lose mamma, I should have a thousand reproaches
against myself and feel great remorse, for I have been very
rude and very violent . . . For a good cause I know, but all
the same I should reproach myself for all these excesses of
speech . . . Besides mamma . . . that would be an immense
sorrow ; even the thought of it makes me cry — however
many faults I find in her.
She is virtuous, but she doesn't understand anything,
and has no confidence in me. . . . She always thinks that
everything will come all right, and that it is better "not
to make a fuss/' I thmk the death which would
frieve me the most would, after all, be my aunt's, who
as devoted her life to everybody, and wno has never,
even for a single minute, lived for herself, excepting the
hours she sj>ent at roulette in Baden or Monaco.
Mamma is the only one who is kind to her. I have
not kissed her for a month, and I only say indifferent
things to her, or reproach her about a lot of trifles. It is
not out of spite, but because I, too, am very unhappy,
and because all these discussions with mamma and my
aunt have given me the habit of a short, hard, and crush-
ing tone. If I were to try to say tender things, or even to
speak gently, I should begin to cry like an idiot. But
still, without being tender, I might be more amiable — I
might smile and cnat sometimes. It would make her so
happy, and it would cost me nothing. But it would be such
a change in my manners, that I dare not, because of a
sort of false shame.
And yet this poor woman, whose life may be written
in one word — "devotion" — moves me to tenderness, and I
wish I could be kind. ... If she should happen to die,
what remorse I should feel !
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614 MARIE BA8EKIRT8EFF.
For instance, grandpapa tried my patience sometimes
by his old man's crazes, but one ought to respect age. I
have happened to answer him improperly, and when he
became paralysed I felt so much remorse, that I often
went to nim to obliterate, attenuate, and expiate.
And, besides, grandpapa was very fond of me, and I
am crying as I think of nim.
Friday, June 15th. — The Canroberts write me a charm-
ing letter, and everyone shows great sympathy.
This morning, hoping to meet nobody, I risk going to
the Salle Petit, an exhibition of a hundred masterpieces,
in aid of something or other — Decamps, Delacroix, Fortuny,
Rembrandt, Rousseau, Millet, and Meissonier, the only living
one among them, and others. First, I make my excuses to
Meissonier, whom I did not know well, and who had only
inferior things at the last exhibition of portraits. Yes, they
are marvels — literally. But what induced me to go out in my
crape veil was the wish to see Millet, whom I did not
know at all, and whose name had been dinned into my
ears. Bastien is but a poor follower of his, people said.
In fact, I was driven to go. I have seen them, and I
will go again to see them. . . . Bastien imitates him, if
you Tike, Decause he paints peasants, and because both are
great artists, and all real masterpieces have a family likeness.
Cazin's landscapes are much more like Millet than
Bastien's. What I admire in Millet — in the six pictures I
see here— is the impression as a whole — the harmony, the
atmosphere, the liquidness; they are little figures seen in
an abstract way — very broad ana very correct. And that
which gives Bastien his unequalled power to-day is the
scrupulous, powerful, living, ana extraordinary execution of
his numan faces — his perfect imitation of nature — life in
fact. His Soir au Village, which is but small in size,
certainly equals Millet. It only contains two little faces,
lost in the twilight, but the remembrance of his Amour
au Village makes my eyes ache. What a mistake is
this background! How is it that he does not see it?
Yes, in those large pictures he lacks what makes Millet
extraordinary in small pictures. . . . Atmosphere, har-
mony! .... Whatever may be said, the figure must
predominate. Le Pire Jacques is superior to L Amour
au Village in its effect — Les Foins also. Le Pert
Jacques was full of poetry. The little girl picking flowers
is a ravishing figure, and the old man was ex-
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PARIS, 1883. 615
cellent. ... I know very well that it is difficult to give
to a large picture that narmony, that firm yet mellow
blending of tones, which characterises Millet. But it
ought to be done. In a small picture many things can be
disregarded. I speak of small pictures in which the ex-
()ression predominates (and not of the minute Meissonier),
ike Cazin, for instance, who is the son of Millet. With
a few happy strokes of the brush one can often give that
indefinable something pervading the whole, not found pre-
cisely at any one point, arid which we call charm ....
while in a large picture all this is quite different ....
and becomes much more difficult, for feeling should then
be based on science, as frequently happens in the case of
love and money.
Saturday, June Kith. — So then I withdraw from Bastien's
Eictures the qualification of " masterpieces." Why ? Because
is Amour au Village makes my hair stand on end; or
because I have not the courage of my opinion ? It is the dead
only of whom we dare to make gods ; if Millet were alive,
what would be said of him ? Besides, you see only six
pictures of Millet here ; shall we not find in the Rue Legendre
six pictures as good as these? 1, Pas meche; 2, Jeanne
d'Arc ; 3, His brother's portrait ; 4, Le soir au village ; 5,
Lesfoins ; I do not know all, and he is not yet dead Bastien
is less the son of Millet than is Cazin, who resembles him very
much in \ ... a younger style. . . . Bastien is original and
is himself One always begins by slightly imitating somebody,
but personality is developed afterwards. Besides, poetry,
power, and charm are always the same, and if to seek these
is imitation, it is indeed disheartening. You feel an intense
impression before a Millet, you also feel it before a Bastien.
. . . What does this prove ? Superficial people say imitation,
they are wrong ; two different actors can move you in the
same manner, because real, human, and intense feelings are
always the same.
There are about ten very graceful lines by Etincelle about
myself. I am a remarkable painter, a beautiful young girl,
and a pupil of Bastien-Lepage. What do you think of that ?
I saw the bust of Ernest Renan at Saint- Marceaux's studio,
and yesterday I saw Renan passing in a carriage ; I recognised
him at once.
There is a likeness, at all events !
Monday, June 18th. — Attend ! this is a little event.
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616 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
I have promised to see the correspondent of the Nouveau
Temps (of Saint Petersburg) this morning at eleven o'clock ;
he had asked for this by letter. It is a very important
paper, and this M. B. f amongst other things, writes articles
on our Paris painters for it, and as "you occupy a prominent
position amongst these, I hope you will permit me, &c."
Ah ! ah ! before going down I let him wait for a few
minutes with my aunt, wno prepares him for my appearance
by speaking of my youth, ana of all sorts of things to show
me off. He looks at all the pictures, and takes notes.
When did I commence ? where ? at what age, and in what
way ? and details, and &c. ? . . .
I am an artist of whom the correspondent of a great
newspaper is about to make a study.
It is a beginning, and it is the nonourable mention which
has done this for me, and .... provided the article be good ;
I don't quite know whether the notes were taken correctly,
for I could not hear all, and that is very aggravating.
My aunt and Dina told everything. . . . What? I am
awaiting this article in agony . . . and I shall have to wait a
fortnight
They laid particular stress on my youth.
Thursday, June 21st — To-morrow is the distribution of
rewards ; they sent me the list of those who are to receive
them . . . and my name in it (section of paintings) is very
effective .... but I hesitate to go; it is not worth the
trouble, and then if ... .
How do I know ? fears of I don't know what
Friday, June 22tmZ. — Bojidar is there by nine o'clock.
He is a very curious being. The principal trait of this
fantastic and careless Slav character is the love of im-
provisation ; and when he is friendly with people, all this
imagination is used to glorify his friends ; he is passionately
attached to people for a certain time.
Those poor artists! there were some who looked very
much moved, men of forty-five years, quite pale and nervous,
with overcoats or ill-made coats, gomg up to take their
medals and to press the hand of Jules Ferry, the Minister.
A worthy sculptor having carried off his little box, opened
it as soon as he got to his place, and a happy involuntary
smile like the smile of a child, came over his face. I was
rather moved myself as I looked at the others, and for a
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PARIS, 1883. 617
moment it seemed to me a fearful thing to have to get up
and to to that table.
My aunt and Dina were sitting behind me on a bench,
for the persons receiving rewards have the right to chairs . . .
Well, now this prize day is over ! I hadn't imagined it
like that. Oh! ana to have a medal next year . . . and
for everything to happen as in a dream ! ... To be ap-
plauded, to triumph !
That would be too beautiful and impossible, if I were not
so unlucky . . . And if you had a second medal, you would
want the grand medal ? No doubt of it. And the cross ?
Why not ? And what next ? and afterwards to enjoy the
fruits of one's work and trouble, to work on, and Keep as
much as possible at the same height and try to be happy,
to love somebody.
Yes, we will see afterwards, there is no hurry. He will
be neither uglier nor older in five years' time than he is
to-day. And if I were to marry like that at once I might
regret it . . . But I must get married ; I am two-and-twenty
years of age. And I loot older; not that I look old, but
when I was thirteen, at Nice, I was taken for seventeen, and
I looked it
After all ... to marry some one who will truly love me ,
without that I should be the most wretched of women.
But further, this somebody must at least please me! To
be celebrated, very celebrated, illustrious ! That will settle
everything ... No ... I must not reckon on meeting an
ideal being, who would respect and love me and be a good
match.
Celebrated women frighten ordinary people, and geniuses
are rare.
Sunday, June 24£ h. — I think of the nonsense I used to
write about Pietro : as when I said that I thought of him every
evening, that I expected him, that if he had unawares
arrived from Nice, I should throw myself into his arms.
And it was thought that I was in love with him ; those
who read this will think so.
But never — never was this the case — no, never !
But when you feel bored at night in summer, you often
think that you would like to have occasion to throw your-
self into the arms of a man who loves you .... It has
happened a hundred times to me in imaginatioa But then
I nad a name to write, a real being whom I might call
Pietro. A fig for Pietro ! Well, there was the fancy of
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618 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
being the niece of the grand Cardinal, who might become
Pope .... but .... No, I have never been in love and I
never shall be now; a man would have to be so superior
to please me now, I am so exacting. It would have to be
.... but to be simply in love witn some charming young
fellow, no; that can never happen any mora
Thursday, June 28th. — I think sometimes that this
interminable journal contains treasures of thought, sentiment,
and originality which I have been hoarding up for years, for I
write separate notes in a copy book. It is a necessity with-
out motive like the necessity of breathing. But first of all
I ought to rive myself peace by marrying to get rid of
this care ; and then give myself up entirely to work.
Tuesday, July 12th. — My picture does not get on ; I
am miserable ; nothing to console me ! !
Here is the article in the Nouveau Temps, it is very
food, but makes me feel rather embarrassed ; it says that
am only nineteen, and I am more than that, and I look
more, and people make me out to be older still But the
effect will be very great in Russia.
Thursday, July \2th. — The Canroberts to breakfast, and
then we go to the exhibition in the Rue de Sfeza Oh, God !
what I aesire is talent. Oh, God ! it seems to me there's
nothing left but that
Dress, coquetry, nothmg exists ; I dress well, because
even that is art, and I cannot go dressed anyhow, but in
other respects this constant preoccupation makes me ugly ;
I bury myself, I shut myself up, and what good does it bring
me?
All this is a fine thing to tell after the bursting out of
genius, but so it is ! I do not think Benvenuto Cellini as
courageous as I am when he burnt his furniture; I am
throwing in the flames something much better and much
more. And what shall I have in return? He knew what
it would be, and I ? . . .
If I could soon get rid of this picture of the boys, I should
fo to the country, real country, with grand horizons, moors,
ut no mountains; with beautiful sunsets and grey slopes,
grass and wild flowers, roses and space, space. Oh, to paint a
large picture with an infinite sky .... grass and wild flowers.
Friday, July IMh. — Am I romantic in the ridiculous
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PARIS, 1883. 619
sense of the word ? or am I really out of the common ? for
my feelings agree only with what is highest and purest in
literature, and Balzac admits that writers adorn themselves
with this as with paint . . . Well ? . . .
Well .... and love ?
What is it? I have never felt it; for these passing
fancies count for nothing. I have had preferences for people
because an object is necessary to my imagination ; so I must
have preferred them because it was a want of my "great
soul/' and not because they made any impression upon me.
That is the whole difference. It is enormous.
Without transition, let us pass on to art I don't see
my way in painting. I am following Bastien-Lepage, and
it is deplorable.
One always lags behind, and is never great, as long as
one has not discovered a new method for oneself— a way of
rendering individual impressions.
My own art does not exist
I perceive it a little in the Holy Women. . . . And yet ?
It is different in sculpture. But in painting ! ... In the
Holy Women, I imitate nobody, and I expect a grand effect,
for I will put great sincerity into the material working out,
and also all tne emotion that I feel on this subject The
boys remind you of Bastien-Lepage, in spite of my having
taken the subject from the streets, and that it is quite a
common subject, very true, and seen every day. But this
painter always causes me a sort of uneasiness.
Satwrday, Jvly \4>th. — We go out for a drive to see
decorations m the town ; it amuses me.
And afterwards I continued yesterday's meditations.
Have you read Stendhal's Amour ? I am reading it now.
I have never loved in my life, or else I have never ceased
loving an imaginary being. . . . Which is it ?
Read this Book ; it is more delicate than Balzac, it is more
real, more harmonious and more poetic ; and it expresses
divinely what every one has felt ; even I. But I have always
been too analytic. I was never really in love, excepting at
Nice when I was a child, and then it was from ignorance.
And then a sickly fancy for that horror of a JPietro.
I remember, in the evening at Naples, being all alone on
the balcony listening to a serenade — really delicious moments
. — feeling myself in transports and ecstasies without an
object, caused solely by the country, the evening, and the
music.
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620 MARIE BA8HKIRTSEFF.
I have never felt these impressions in Paris, nor anywhere
but in Italy.
If I did not fear what people would say, I should marry
X at once ; I should be free and calm while waiting to
meet the supreme one. But, on the other hand, to marry
a man who is like everybody else, and who having nothing to
reproach himself with, would make me unhappy, or bore me!
Monday, July \6th — I am much interested in crystallisa-
tion, and I am convinced that a book might be written on
simple crystallisations which come to nothing. Myself, for
instance, with whom complete love would be possible only in
marriage, or any other nigh-principled young girl, or even
married woman, we are not exempt for all that from the
shocks which determine crystallisations, although these
crystallisations come to nothing ; and here permit me to
say that I do not like the word crystallisation ; but, as
Stendhal says, it avoids a long explanatory phrase,
so I make use of it The crystallisation commences.
If the "object" has every perfection, we allow ourselves
to go towards him, and we attain love — that is to say,
we love; the essential part is to love, and not to practise
what Alexandre Dumas jUs calls "love." If the object
has not every perfection, if we find a fault or faults in
him, be it something ugly or ridiculous, a lack of intellect,
the affair stops half way. I also think that one can stop
one's self at wilL
Tuesday, July Ytth — Still thinking of the crystallisations
without object, alas !
And of sculpture ? Painting progresses a little better.
Oh ! to have talent ! to obliterate that wretched " Honour-
able mention ! " Exhibit the boys, the holy women in a
black frame, and at the foot the inscription — " And he rolled
a great stone to the door of the sepulchre and departed ; and
there was Mary Magdalene and tne other Mary sitting over
against the sepulchre." And a statue, Nausicaa or Ariadne ;
the sketches are all done, the Ariadne will be laughed at
They will say that it is I, forsaken by whom ? And
Nausicaa ? I like them both I
Three things — two pictures and a statue. I wish for it so
intensely that I fear the most frightful calamities. Love
cannot entirely absorb me ; it must be an accessory, the
crowning of tne edifice, an amiable superfluity. Well, we
shall see !
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PARIS, 1883. 621
Sunday, July 22nd. — Last night I painted ray chest
above the right breast, where the lung is diseased At last I
have made up my mind, there will be a yellow stain for
three or four montns ; but at least I shall not die in a con-
sumptioa
Wednesday, July 25th. — M. X brings us the two
busts bought for a hundred francs each. We keep him to
dinner. He looks very uncomfortable, though he affects a
certain self-possessioa I felt for him, thinking he must be
very embarrassed. They say he is poor ; all this hurts me,
and I am ashamed at having only given the price of a hat for
two works of art Instead of making me more kind, these
feelings made me seem less cordial, and I am vexed about it.
The poor fellow took off his coat in the drawing-room, and
put it on a divan. He does not talk We had some music ; it
made a slight diversion. He didn't seem to know exactly
how to behave. I do not see much cleverness in him.
However, with his talent he must be intelligent But we could
not make him feel at home ; besides, he is of a wild nature.
He must be very proud and very unhappy. In any case it is
quite certain that he is poor, and that I bought two busts
of him for two hundred francs ; and it makes me feel
ashamed. I should like to send him another hundred
francs — for I have a capital of one hundred and fifty francs —
but I don't know how.
Thursday, July 26th. — The unsettled weather keeps back
iny picture, and I destroy all my attempts in clay, except-
ing one, which is not yet placed ; and just then, of course,
Saint-Marceaux arrives. . . . Mind the heart beatings,
crystallisation, &c. I put on and take off two gowns, I
make him wait a long time, and receive him at last, flushed
and clumsily dressed.
He is very amusing, always indignant with the modern
school, the naturalists and tne human documents. Some-
thing must be sought which is art, and which cannot be
explained ... I understand very well, but ... He
has only seen this poor specimen, and told me to go on
in the same way: that is all. It is disconcerting; as the
recumbent figure that C. advised me to have rough-newn and
to keep, is with the rough-hewer, he could not see it I
received no compliment excepting for that everlasting portrait
of Dina, which is considered so good. . . Saint-Marceaux
is charming, original, clever, nervous, almost abrupt ; he does
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622 MARIE. BA8HKIRT8EFF.
not hesitate to attack everything; that is better than the
hypocrisy which credits everybody with talent He has
seen my street boys, and says that it is easy to paint
pictures of low lite, peasants, street arabs — caricatures, in
short ; but rather do beautiful and line things with character
in tliem, that is the difficulty ; and put into your work the
something which cannot be explained — in fact, art, which we
find only in ourselves. Have I not said this? Down with
vile copyists, photographers and naturalists !
That is right, go on!
But what left me a painful impression was that I looked
neither beautiful, nor lively, nor bright ! . . .
Friday, August 3rd. — Bastien-Lepage is disheartening.
When one studies Nature closely, when one wants to imitate it
perfectly, it is impossible not to think all the time of this
tremendous artist He possesses every secret of the texture
of the skin ; what others do is only painting ; but his work is
Nature itself. They talk of realists, but realists do not know
what reality is ; they are coarse and think they are true.
Realism does not consist in reproducing a vulgar thing,
but in the rendering, which ought to be perfect
I do not want to do things which look like painting,
I want it to look like flesh and blood, and to look like
life ! When you have taken an infinity of trouble all day,
all you have gained is to reproach yourself cruelly for having
worked badly, and for having produced a thing that looks
dry and painted. And the remembrance of that monster of
Damvillers crushes one. His work is broad, simple, and true,
and all the details of Nature are there ! Ah ! misery.
Sunday, August 5th. — They say I have had a love affair
with C, and that this is the reason I do not marry, for
people cannot understand why, having a good dowry, I
am not as yet a countess or a marchioness.
The idiots! Fortunately you, handful of beings of the
&ite, superior people, you dear beloved confidants who read
me, you know what to think But when you read me, all
those of whom I speak will probably be dead, and C-
will carry to the grave the sweet conviction of having been
loved by a young and beautiful stranger who, being in love
with this' cavalier, &c. The idiot ! The others will believe
it too, the idiots ! But you know that it was not so. It
might perhaps be poetical to refuse petty marquises through
love ; but alas ! I refuse them through reason.
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PARIS, 1883. 623
Tuesday, August 7 th. — I get quite red when I think
that in a week's time it will be five months since I finished
the Salon picture. What have I accomplished in five
months ? Nothing as yet Some sculpture, it is true, but
that does not count The street boys are not finished. I
am very unhappy .... seriously. N. N. dined here and
retailed to me nis catalogue of the Louvre, telling me the
place of nearly every picture. He has studied this to win
my favour. He thinks it possible that I may marry him.
He must think me hard up to get that into his head.
Perhaps it is because I cannot hear well that he thinks I
have come down in the world? After he left, I almost
fainted with grief. What have I done to God that He
should always strike me ? What does this modern Potiphar
think ? If ne is not convinced that I will never love any-
thing but art, what does he think? However, a love
match is not to be found! Then what is it that
complains ? what is it that loses patience ? what is it that
makes ordinary life seem miserable to me ? It is a real power
which is within me. It is something that my poor litera-
ture cannot express.
The idea of a picture or a statue keeps me awake
whole nights ; never has the thought of a handsome man
done so.
I went to the Louvre this morning to see Raphael after
reading StendhaL Well, no matter how I try, I cannot
like him from what I see here. I prefer the naivety of the
earlier painters.
Rapnael is sophisticated and untrue.
Divine, divine ! ... is he really divine ?
The character of the divine is to ravish and lift our
thoughts into celestial regions.
Raphael tires me.
Who then is divine ? I don't know.
Why does Stendhal say that Raphael paints souls ? In
which of his pictures ?
This is an admiration which I should have to cultivate.
I like the naive and admirable Pre-Raphaelite artists, to
whom the precious Perugino almost belongs.
But wnat do I care for those big absurd things all
science and precision, or even for the masses of flesh by Rubens ?
How they bore me! What can I make of the marriage of
Cana, or Raphael's Virgins ? that is not divine ! the Virgin
is commonplace, and that child ? By-the-bye, I ought to see
again what is in Italy. The remembrance I have of them is
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624 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
not favourable .... The Madonna della Seggiola is a type
of a pretty Italian chambermaid, very delicate. I see more
divinity in Michael Angelo. Raphael Sanzio. Listen to this
precious name.
I want to represent only striking things, which move you
or leave you palpitating or dreaming, in fact things which
enchain your heart like the simple httle pictures of Cazin ;
the size is of little consequence, but if the same effect could
be produced on a large scale .... It would be superb ! But
how many are there who understand Cazin?
Saturday, August Wth. — I am reading the histories of
painting by StendhaL This intelligent man always agrees
with me. But it seems to me that ne looks for too much
purpose and inventioa He caused me a painful surprise
when he said that to paint grief you ought to get informa-
tion from physiology.
How?
But if I do not fed the tragical expression, tell me the
physiology that could make me feel it?
The muscles ! Ah, good Lord !
A painter who will paint pain physiologically, and not
because he has felt it and understood it — seen it (even
figuratively) — will be but a cold and flat artist. It is as
though you were to tell anybody to grieve according to
given rules. Feel first, and reason after, if you like. It is
impossible that the analysis should not confirm the impres-
sion. But it would be an investigation out of pure
curiosity.
You are free to analyse tears in order to learn logically
and scientifically what colour you are to paint them! As
for myself, I prefer to see them shine, and to paint them
as I see them, without even knowing why they are so —
and not different
Sunday, August 12th, — The thought that Bastien-
Lepage is coming unnerves me so that I have been
unable to do anything. It is really ridiculous to be so
impressionable. Our pope dined with us. . . . We talked
at table. Bastien-Lepage is excessively intelligent, but less
brilliant than Saint - Marceaux. I did not show my
pictures. Nothing, nothing at all ! I had nothing to
say — or rather, I did not shine. And when Bastien-Lepage
commenced an interesting conversation I could not answer,
nor even follow his sentences, which are compact and
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PARIS, 1883. 625
refined, like his painting. Had it been with Julian I
should have replied, for it is the sort of conversation
which suits me best. He is intelligent, he understands
everything, he is even learned — I feared a certain
ignorance. . . .
In fact, when he said things to which I ought to have
replied in such a manner as to unveil my fine qualities
of mind and heart, I allowed him to talk and remained
mute.
I cannot even write — it is a day like that. I am dis-
organised. ... I want to be alone — quite alone, to realise
the impression which is interesting and considerable. Ten
minutes after he came I had mentally capitulated and
accepted his influence.
I did not say anything I ought to have said. He is
always a god, and thinks nimself one. I strengthened him
still more in this opinioa He is short, and the vulgar
would call him ugly ; but to me, and to persons of my sphere,
that head is charming. What does he think of me ? I
was awkward, and laughed too much. . . . He says he is
jealous of Saint-Marceaux. ... A fine triumph!
Thursday, August 16#A. — "A great calamity" would,
perhaps, be an exaggeration ; but what occurs may be
justly regarded, even by reasonable persons, as a well-
directed blow. . . .
And absurd . . . like all my misfortunes. I was going
to send my picture to the triennial exhibition on the 20th
of August — final respite — and it is not on the 20th but the
16th, to-day, that tne respite expires. I have a pricking
in my nose, pains in my back, and my hands are rebellious.
One must feel thus after being beaten
After which I go and hide myself in the closet to weep
over all my miseries — the only, and by no means heroic,
place in which I shall not be suspected.
If I shut myself up in my room, they would guess why,
after such a blow. It is I think the first time tnat I hide
myself to cry bitterly, with my eyes shut, and my mouth
square, like a child or a savage. . . .
And afterwards ? Afterwards I will stay at the studio
until my eyes regain their usual appearance. I cried once
in mamma's arms, and that sorrow shared with another was
such a cruel humiliation for months, that I will never cry
with grief before anybody again. One can cry with rage, or
about the death of Gambetta before anybody ; but to exhibit
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626 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
one's weakness, one's poorness, one's misery, one's humiliation.
Never ! If it relieves at the time, you always repent of it
as of a confidence.
While crying, you know where, I found the expression
for my Magdalen, who shall not look at the sepulchre, but
at nothing at all, as I was doing just now. The eyes well
opened, as when you have just been crying.
Ah, well !
God is unjust, and, if He does not exist, to whom shall I
turn ? He is punishing me for doubting. He does every-
thing to make me doubt, and when I doubt He strikes me,
and when I persist in believing and praying He strikes me
harder to teach me patience.
Friday, August 17th. — My timidity is not believed in, it
may be explained by an excess of pride.
I have a horror, a terror, and despair at asking ; things
must be offered to me. In a moment of foolhardiness I make
up my mind to ask ; it never succeeds, it is nearly always
too late, or beside the mark.
I get pale and red many times before I dare to say that I
intena to exhibit or to paint a picture. It seems to me that
people will laugh at me, that I Know nothing, and that I am
pretentious ana ridiculoua
When any one looks at my painting (I mean an artist, of
course) I go awav into the third room, so much am I afraid
of a word or a look. But Robert Fleury has no idea that I
am so little sure of myself As I talk braggingly, he thinks
that I think highly of myself, and give myself credit for great
talent Therefore, he has no need to encourage me ; aad if
I told him my hesitations and my fears he would laugh ; I
spoke to him about it once and he took it as a joke. That is
the formidable error which I give rise to. I think Bastien-
Lepage knows that I am dreadfully frightened at him, and
he thinks himself God Almighty.
Monday, August 20th. — I am singing ; the moon shines in
by the large window of the studio. It is fine. One ought to
manage to be happy. Yes, if one is lucky enough to be in
love In love with whom ?
Tuesday, August 21st — No, I shall not die until I am
nearlv forty, like Mile. Colignon ; when I am about thirty-
five I shall oe very ill, and at thirty-six or thirty-seven, in the
winter time, in bed, all will be over. And my will ! it will
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PARIS, 1883. 627
be limited to asking for a statue and a painting of Saint-
Marceaux, and of Jules Bastien-Lepage, in a chapel at Paris,
surrounded by flowers, in a conspicuous place ; and on each
anniversary to have masses by Verdi and Pergolesi sung there,
and other music, on each anniversary in perpetuity by the
most celebrated singers.
Besides which, I will found a prize for artists — male and
female.
Instead of doing this, I want to live ; but I have no genius,
so it is better to die.
Monday, August 27th. — I gave my Fisher with Bod and
Line to the Ischia lottery ; the lots are shown in the Rue de
S&ze, at Petit's. My fisher is good and the water is good. I
should never have thought it Ah ! the frame ! Ah ! the
middle distance I We are very absurd. What is the good of
working at art, the masses understand nothing about it?
Then do you love the crowd ? Yes ; that is to say that 1
should wish for a fame which all could understand, so as to
get still more admiration.
Wednesday, August 29th. — I cough all the time in spite
of the heat ; and this afternoon, while the model was resting,
I fell half asleep on the divan, and saw myself stretched out
with a great lighted taper beside me. It would be the solu-
tion of all these miseries.
To die ! I am very much afraid of it. No, I will not !
It would be horrible ! I don't know how happy people get
on, but I am much to be pitied, since I expect nothing more
from God. When that supreme refuge is gone, there is
nothing left but to die. Without God there can neither be
poetry, nor tenderness, nor genius, nor love, nor ambitioa
Our passions plunge us into uncertainties, aspirations, desires,
exaggerations of thought We want something beyond, a God
to whom we can go with our enthusiasms and our prayers, a
God from whom we can ask everything, and to whom we can
tell everything. I should like all remarkable men to confess
and say if when they were very much in love, very ambitious,
or very unhappy, they did not have recourse to God.
Ordinary natures, even very intelligent and very learned
ones, can do without ; but those who have the spark, even if
they are as learned as all science itself, and even if they doubt
through reason, they too believe out of passion, at least, some-
times.
I am very learned, but all my reflections tend towards not
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628 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
this : " The God we are taught to believe in is an invention :
the God of religion or of reugions, we will not talk about"
But the God of men of genius, the God of philosophers,
the God of simply intelligent people like ourselves, that God
is unjust if He does not hear us ; or if He is wicked, I do not
see what He has to do. But if He does not exist, why should
there be this need of adoring Him, in every place, among
every people, and at all times? Is it possible that i\othin\o
should respond to these aspirations, which are innate in all
men, to this instinct which leads us to seek for the Supreme
Being, the great Master, God ?
Saturday, September 8th, — A good day's work; I have
finished Louis's portrait We went to Versailles, and in the
evening, after tne visit to the Marshal, Claire and myself
jjo and stretch ourselves on the drawing-room floor, as we
ao every evening. We talk about art, as we do every
evening ; but to-night especially there is more real intimacy,
and above all I am thinking about my picture. It is to
be ... . something full of poetry .... quiet, calm, simple,
and profound
1 do not fall short for want of fine terms. However,
we shall see.
My new picture would be great .... calm, simple.
Thursday, September 13th. — I have been reading in
Stendhal that our griefs appear less bitter when we idealise
them. Most true. How shall I idealise mine ? Impossible !
They are so bitter, so prosaic, so dreadful, that I cannot speak
of them even here without great pain. How confess that I near
badly at times ? " Well ! God's will be done ! " The phrase
comes to me mechanically, and I almost believe it For I
shall die quite naturally, without a struggle, while nursing
myself
Well, I don't mind, for I am troubled about my sight, and
have passed a fortnight without working or reading, and yet
it is no better. I nave a sense of vibrations and floatir^g
specks in the air. It may be due to my having bronchitis
during the last fortnight, which would lay up anybody else,
but in spite of which I go out as if nothing were the matter.
I have worked at Dina's portrait in such a tragic frame of
mind that it will turn my hair grey.
Saturday, September 15th. — This morning I went to see
the Bastiens at the Sfdon. How shall I put it? It's the
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PARIS, 1883. 629
Juintessence of beauty. There are three portraits, which, in
ulian's opinion, who dines with us this evening, are enough
to drive one crazy. Yes, crazy ! Nothing like them has ever
been done. It's life itself ; it's the souL And the workman-
ship is incomparable, it's nature herself You must be mad
to think of painting after that.
He has a little picture called Ripe Corn — a man, seen
from behind, is reaping. A good picture.
There are two life-size pictures: Haymaking and
Potato Gatherers.
What colour ! What drawing ! What brush power !
There is a richness of tone only found in nature herself;
and the people are alive !
The simple way in which the tones blend with one another
is divine, and the eye follows their gradation with genuine
ecstasy.
I entered the room, not knowing it was there, and came to
a sudden halt before Haymaking, as you would stop before
a window unexpectedly opening on a landscape.
He does not receive justice. He is miles and miles above
eveiybody. Nothing can compare with him.
I am thoroughly ill. I put an enormous blister on my
chest After that, doubt, if you can, my courage and mv
wish to live. No one knows it, in fact, except Rosalie ; I walk
about the studio reading, talking, and singing in a voice that
is almost beautiful. As I often do nothing on a Sunday, no
one is surprised.
Tuesday, September \&th. — It seems that the Russian press
in noticing me has made every one notice me a little,
the Grand-Duchess Catherine among others. Mamma is
acquainted with her chamberlain and his family, and there
has been some serious talk of my appointment to the post
of lady-in-waiting.
But it is necessary to be presented to the Grand-Duchess.
Indeed, it has all been discussed; but mamma was wrong
in leaving matters to take care of themselves, and coming
back here.
And then .... my beautiful soul needs a sister souL I
shall never have a friend. Claire says I can't have a girl
friend because I have no little secrets and little girlish
adventures.
" You are too irreproachable, you have nothing to hide."
Wednesday, September 2&th. — Now that the vexations
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630 MARIE BA8HKIRT8EFF.
have been forgotten, I only remember what was good, original
and clever about my father. He was a man of impulse, and
seemed frivolous and eccentric to the vulgar. He had a
certain amount of hardness and cunning may be .... but
who is without faults, and I myself ? . . . . Indeed, I blame
myself, and weep for him.
Had I only gone that time. ... It would have been for
the sake of appearances, as I had no feeling about the
matter. . . .
Would it have been meritorious all the same? I don't
think so.
I didn't have that feeling, and God will punish me for it
And will my emotion of this evening be taken into account ?
Are we responsible for our genuine feelings, whether good
or bad ?
" We must do our duty," you say. There was no question
of duty. I am speaking of feeling, and since I did not then
feel the necessity of going, how will God judge me ?
Yes, I regret not to have felt sooner the emotion of this
evening. And he is dead, and it is irreparable. And what
would it have cost me to do my duty, for it was my duty,
to go to my dying father ? I did not see it, and I feel that I
am not altogether blameless. I did not do my duty, and I
ought to have done it It will be an eternal regret Yes, I
dia not act well, and I repent, I am humiliated in my own
eyes, and it is very painfuL I won't make excuses, but don't
you think mamma ought to have told me so ? Ah ! well, ve6!
She was afraid of tiring me, and then they said, " If Mane
foes with her mother, tney will stop six months out there !
ut if Marie remains here, her mother will come back all the
sooner."
The family reasoned in this way. Alas ! without knowing
it we are always under somebody's influence.
Monday, October 1st — The remains of our great writer,
Tourgeniff, who died a fortnight ago, have been sent to Russia
to-day. At parting there was a grand ceremony at the station
Speeches were maae by M. Renan, M. About, and Vyrouboff,
a Russian, who spoke very well in French, and moved his
hearers more than the others. Edinond About spoke in such
a low voice that I heard but little ; Ernest Renan, whose face
I saw, as interpreted by Saint-Marceaux's bust, did very well,
and the last farewell vibrated in our hearte. Bogohouboff
also made a speech. In fact I am proud to see such honours
paid to a Russian by these most arrogant Frenchmen,
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PARI8, 1883. 631
I love, but despise them.
They left Napoleon to die at St. Helena That was an im-
mense, monstrous, abominable crime ; a lasting shame
It is true that the Romans assassinated Csesar. — Then
again they have spit upon Lamartine, who, as the younger
Dumas justly remarks, would have had altars raised to him
by the ancients.
And to mention a more personal grievance, they mis-
understand the talent of Bastien-Lepage. — We went to the
Salon after Tourgeniff, and I can't see these paintings with-
out bursts of entnusiasm, inward outbursts, or it might be
thought I was in love with him.
Meissonier ! But Meissonier is only a juggler who pro-
duces such microscopic work as to fill us with astonishment
bordering on emotion .... But as soon as he abandons
this minute style, as soon as his heads have more than a
centimetre, it grows hard and commonplace ; but no one dare
say so, and everybody admires him, although all his canvases
at this year's Salon are only good and well drawn.
Is that art?
People in full costume who play on the piano, or ride
on horseback, &c
Well, a great many genre painters do as much. The
works of his which struck me as astonishingly beautiful are
first the Flayers at Bowls in the Antibes Road. It's a scene
from the life, although in the dress of the ancients, full of
air and sunlight, yet so small, and done in a way to strike
you dumb with surprise.
Then he himself and his father on horseback, on the
same road, I believe ; then the Etcher. The movement ; and
expression are rendered with great truth. This man who
thmks, works, and is perhaps absorbed in his subject, interests
and touches us, while the details are simply miraculous.
Besides these, there is a Louis XIII. cavalier looking out of
window, same size, equally true in movement, the action
being human, natural and simple — a particle of life, in short.
As to the others I class tnem with good genre pictures,
carefully executed, and which would add nothing, pernaps, to
Meissonier's fame without the above-mentioned masterpieces.
As to his portraits, when the heads are only two centimetres
long they look like cardboard ; they get worse the bigger
they are.
I bow and pass on, he will never touch me.
But look at the portraits of Bastien-Lepage! The
majority would make an outcry if I were to say that they
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632 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
are very greatly superior to Meissonier's. And yet there's
no doubt of it
But envious people make use of a reputation of long
standing as if it were a club for knocking down newcomers
of whom they are afraid.
There's nothing comparable to the portraits of Bastien-
Lepage. Discuss his pictures .... well and good, you
may not be able to understand them; — but his portraits!
From the beginning of the world until to-day nothing better
has been done.
Saturday, October 6th. — The dear, good, excellent Robert
Fleury comes to see my picture. Dear, good, excellent!
You will guess from this that he didn't pull me to pieces.
His first words were : " It makes a very good impression."
I interrupted him at once.
"No, Monsieur, I don't want you to spare me. That
horrible Julian says that people make allowances for rue,
that I know nothing, that "
"Pardon me, Mademoiselle, I have always treated you
as a student who is thoroughly in earnest, one who works
in the most serious manner."
" M Julian says I know nothing .... that — "
"And you take his teasing seriously?"
And the charming man laughed heartily at my
naivetd. ....
Well, this is what he said of the pictures: — It's very
good; there are some parts which are extremely good
(I quote his own words}, some parts which I should
probably never surpass. The boy to the right and the one in
the foreground with his back turned are as good as possible.
But the background on the right-hand side wants more
light, and this, it seems, would add enormously to the
general effect of my figures which I am not to touch
again, except for two eyes which I must make less black.
It's about two hours' work.
I ought to be mad with joy, but I am not, because I
don't share the opinion of my excellent master. I can do
better .... Is what I have done not good ? not good
enough .... I see things better than that, I ought to paint
as I see them.
What will the public say ? Will it be noticed ? How
can one tell? He thinks it good. Don't send it to Nice;
keep it for Paris. He says that it's good ; but good is a matter
of comparison, and I don't care for what is merely compara-
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PARIS, 1883. 633
tively good It may be good for another, but is it good
for me, will the world think it so ? Is it strong ? He con-
siders that the little fellow's back is perfect in drawing; he
says that his little legs may be felt behind his trousers,
that he stands firmly on his feet and all ... .
He may fancy that I was thinking of anatomical difficulties.
I copied nature without thinking of anything ; it seems
to me for that matter that talent acts unconsciously.
Saturday, October 6th. — I have read a novel of our
famous Tourgeniff, all at one sitting and in French, in
order to realise the impression he produces on foreigners.
,He was a great writer, very suhtle and delicate in his
analysis of character; a poet, a Bastien-Lepage. His land-
scapes are as beautiful, ana he describes shades of sentiment
as nappily as Bastien-Lepage paints them.
What a sublime artist !
Millet ! Well, he is as poetic as Millet ; I use this
platitude for the fools who would not understand me
otherwise.
All that's grand, poetic, beautiful, subtle, true in music,
in literature, in everything .... brings me back to this
marvellous painter, to this poet. He takes what men of
the world would consider vulgar subjects, and extracts the
most penetrating poetry from them.
Wnat can be more commonplace than a little girl who
takes care of a cow, or a woman working in a field ?
And how has it been done ?
Nobody has done it like him. He is quite right, he
condenses about three hundred pages in a canvas. But
there are perhaps fifteen of us who understand him.
Tourgeniff has also painted peasants, the poor Russian
peasant ; and with how much truth, naivetd, sincerity ! It
is truly touching, poetic, and great
Unfortunately tnis part of his work cannot be under-
stood abroad, wnere he is chiefly known by his studies of
society.
Tuesday, October 9th. — Bojidar's portrait appears to me —
good ; Julian says that it may be a great success ; that it's
very original, very new, that it will appear like a skilful
Manet
For my part I consider it amusing. He leans on a balcony
the body fronting the spectator, the head in profile against
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634 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
the sky ; you see the dockyard, the houses, the roofe, a street,
a cab ; it is an exact likeness on the whole, but something
seems wanting in the mask The head and body are very
life-like, even to my mind.
There are nasturtiums on the balcony. He is crumpling
one between his fingers while looking at the street ; but I
shall replace the flower by a cigarette ; the other hand is
in his pocket It's a half-length life-size. The hand is
still to do.
But at half-past five I discover a slightly red sky with
the crescent in it, which is just exactly the effect I wanted for
my Holy Women. I instantly made a rough sketch of it I
can only do this picture by a lucky stroke ; such a sky can't
be made to order ; I am much inclined to begin at once, tww.
I could do it in three weeks. In any case let us try ....
The weather won't be worse at Concarneau in November
than in October, and then .... we should do what attracts
us at the propitious moment, the psychological moment
I've got my sky and I shall go to tne south for tie
landscape and the plants. I have got my model here. Let
me see now, when should I go south ? When I have drawn
in the figures and the sky — m a fortnight ; and when I am
once there, I shall perhaps find some pictures to paint, for
I don't feel sure of my Holy Women. I may succeed,
or I may be seven years over. them.
Then the sky. ... If it were but on a small scale. . . . But
no, I want it life-size, it will be more striking.
Wait a while still ? Perhaps ; for I did well to wait so far.
Only a few months ago I should have spoiled the execution ; I
wanted to paint it piecemeal and did not sufficiently under-
stand the tone it required. I should also like to be better
known first, and only to exhibit this picture when my name is
made, as it might otherwise run the risk of being overlooked.
WTiom shall I consult? Who will see the truth, and
tell it?
It must be you again, my only friend, you will at least be
frank, and you love me. Yes, I love myself, and I only.
First, I must/mis/* the gamins, and nave another picture to
send with it. llxhibit Bojidar in one of the winter exhibitions
at the club, along with a portrait of Dina.
And do a statue. This is my dream. It is possible.
Monday, October 15th. — We go to the Salon — the Gavinis,
mamma, and I. To-day, at last, M. Gavini agrees with me
that Bastien-Lepage's portraits are superior to Meissonier's.
I had to argue six months, but am very much pleased.
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PARIS, 1883. 635
What can the opinion of a man of the world matter to
me ? It's a little personal triumph ; it pleases us to convince
others of our opinions ; with the apostles it became a passion,
and there are some still among us ; and then in youth we are
full of fire, and wish to make others share in our enthusiasm ;
the day will come when I won't care ; there are things already
that I don't care for any more.
And Bastien-Lepagje will gain the good opinion of men of
the world, who entertain a certain contempt for him at present
As for me, I should like to be useful and agreeable to all the
world ; to play the part of providence, and save, and make
people happy. And even, what will surprise you most, without
particularly wishing that they should know I had done it.
Oh ! I am an angel !
Monday, October 22nd. — I wish my phthisis were only a
fancy.
It seems there was a time when it was the fashion to be
consumptive, and when everybody tried to appear, or believed
himself, to be so. Ah ! were it only possible that I imagined
it ! But, all the same, and in spite of it all, I want to live. I
don't suffer from unhappy love, or any sentimental mania,
or anything else. I want to be famous, and to enjoy what's
good in the world .... it is so simple.
Sunday, October 28th. — It enrages me to think I have
nothing on the stocks ; I say to myself, let us go to Fontaine-
bleau, and then again, Why ? I could find some wooded spot
close by to which I could drive in a cab every morning ; or
why not paint the mists on the Seine ? Or else .... but
I don't see my way clearly, and don't know what I want
Or why not go to Arcachon, which is like the East, and
where I could oegin the Holy Wonxen ? and, at the same
time, make as many studies as elsewhere. Then what of my
sculpture ? If I travel, my statue will not be done.
To get rid of these vacillations, I will paint the mist on
the Seine in a boat It will do me good.
I get up at one o'clock in the morning to say that I have
at last a wish to paint something. I suffered because I seemed
to have no wish for anything.
It's like a flame rising, rising ; it's like a sudden glimpse
of him one loves ; a glow of emotion and of joy.
It makes me blusn by myself
I long to paint the forest with the flaming leaves — the
marvellous tones of October, with just one or two figures in
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636 MARIE BASHKIRT8EFF.
it In the Pere Jacques, by Bastien-Lepage, the wood, if I
remember right, was already too far gone ; it was bare and a
little grey. I should like to make it red, green, golden. . . .
And yet this also will not be the picture. Only in the
Holy Women shall I be able to show myself ... 1 dare not
begin them, I really dare not
Come to bed.
Thursday, November 1st. — I go to paint at the Grande
Jatte — an avenue of trees with golden tones. A medium size
canvas.
Luckily Bojidar came with me, for I had not remem-
bered it was a fUe, and when we got there we found a num-
ber of bargees, and Rosalie would perhaps have proved an
insufficient chaperon. Moreover, m order to come and
go and paint in this aristocratic island, I dress like an old
German woman. Two or three woollen petticoats to disguise
my figure, a wrap which cost twenty-seven francs, a black
knitted shawl round the head, and socks on my feet
Friday, November 2nd. — What I am doing is veiy
beautiful . . . To-day there wasn't so much as a cat about
It's a desert on week days, especially at this season. Ah!
well, if only I don't get ill!
I have such a wish to paint a picture ! . . . . After that
I won't paint out of doors again this winter. It might be
done in a month on the water during November. It's veiy
simple and beautiful. I shall wrap myself well up — all but
the eyes.
Monday, November 5th. — The leaves have fallen, and I
don't know how to finish my picture. I have no luck
Luck ! How awful a thing it is — an inexplicable and
terrible power.
As to this picture in the boat, I've got the canvas, but
don't know whether to do it now. . . .
Ah, yes ! but quickly, very quickly, in a fortnight, and
then to show it to Julian and Kobert Fleury, quite taken
by surprise.
If I could do so I should revive. I suffer from not
having done more this summer. It is a dreadful regret I
should like to define this particular state more clearly. I
feel debilitated — it's like a great calm. I suppose people
who have just been bled feel something like it
I will make up my mind to bear it until May. ... But
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PARIS, 1883. 637
why should At change with the month of May ? How can
one know?
This makes me reflect on all that there may be in me
of good and remarkable, and I feel soothed and comfprted.
This feeling made me talk to my family at dinner —
talk amiably and naturally — with the same air of sweetness
and calm which I had on that day when I first turned my
hair up from the forehead.
Well, I feel a great calm — I will work calmly. I
fancy all my movements will be quiet now — that I shall
consider the universe with gentle condescension.
I am as calm as if I were strong, or because I am
strong. And patient as if I were certain of the future. . . .
Who knows ? I really feel myself invested with a certain
dignity. I have confidence. I am a power. And then
.... what next ? Yet it is not love ? No. But outside
it there's nothing of interest . . . That's as it should be.
Mademoiselle, do think of your art
Thursday, November 8th. — I read in a paper that at
the opening of an industrial exhibition — Rue de Seze —
yesterday, there was quite a fashionable crowd — our grand-
dukes among others. I ought to have gone, but allowed
the day to pass.
No, I'll struggle no more. I have no luck. And this
sets me singing to the accompaniment of my harp. Had
I been thoroughly happy, perhaps I could not work.
They say that all great artists have always had a thorn
in their flesh. The thorn in my flesh are the petty an-
noyances which always take me back to art — my sole
reason for living.
Oh, to become famous !
When I imagine myself famous it acts like lightning —
like the contact with an electric battery. I leap from my
chair, and begin walking up and down the room.
You will say that if I had been married at seventeen
I should be like everybody else. A great mistake. To
make me marry like other people I must have been dif-
ferent from what I am.
Do you think I have ever been in love ? I don't
think so. Those passing infatuations look like love, but it
can't be the real thing.
I still continue feeling very weak .... as if the
chords of an instrument were unstrung. And why?
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638 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Julian says that I look like an autumnal landscape, like a
forsaken avenue filled with the mist and desolation of
winter. . . .
"Exactly what I am, dear sir."
He hits the truth sometimes — papa Julian.
" Are you going to show your picture to the great
man ? "
" I would sooner jump from a fifth floor."
"Well, that shows that you consider it unsatisfactory
and that you can do better.'
"Very true."
Saturday, November 10th. — I should like to put down to
moral causes a slight feverish attack, brought on by yester-
day's wind on the Seine.
I work at home ; sculpture.
My poor child, everything drives you to art ; don't mis-
take all these indications, go.
Only fame can give what you want, and they say you can
win it
Sunday, November 11th. — I dined this evening at Jouy ;
I think I really love those people. They are intelligent and
amiable. I have pleasure in seeing them, they are not such
a boring set as the others.
Sudden change of decoration ; everything looks smiling,
calm, and beautiful I know what I want to do, and all goes
well
Monday, November 12th. — Drumont, of La Liberti, comes
to see us.
He hates my style of thing, but pays me great com-
pliments, asking me at the same time, in amazement, how it
nappens that, living in the midst of elegance and refinement,
I can love what is ugly. He considers my gamins ugly.
" Why didn't you choose some that were pretty, it would
be just as well ? "
I chose expressive faces, if I can use such a word. For
that matter you don't see such wondrous beauty among the
boys in the street ; to find that you must go to the Champs-
]£lys6es and paint the poor little be-ribbonea babies attenaed
by their nurses.
Where then shall I find any movement, any of that
savage and primitive liberty, any true expression? Well-
brought-up cnildren already put on certain airs.
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PARIS, 1883. 639
And then .... I know I am right
Saturday .November Ylth. — The country gives you a lively
sense of the beauty of pictures.
The Parisians cannot worship it, but if they would only
take the trouble to look at the country with its grandeur,
simplicity, beauty, and poetry ; where every blade of grass —
where the trees, the earth, the looks of passing women, the
attitude of children, the gait of old men, the colour of their
dress — everything in short — harmonises with the landscape! . .
Thursday, November 22nd. — L' Illustration Universelle
(of Russia) publishes an illustration of my picture — Jean et
Jacques — on its first page.
It is the first illustrated paper in Russia, and I seem quite
at home.
Yet it gives me no delight. Why? It is pleasant, but
does not fill me with delight.
Why ? Because it isn't enough for my ambition. If two
years ago I had had an honourable mention, I should have
fainted. If last year they had given me a medal, I should
have wept upon Julian's waistcoat But now ....
Events are logical, alas ! Everything has a sequence, follows
in due course, and is prepared little by little. A third medal
next year will seem natural. If I get nothing, I shall rebel
We only experience a very vivid joy wnen the event is
unexpected, and to some extent takes us by surprise.
A second medal at the next Salon would make me happy
because I don't expect it. And then it is not so much the
medal which counts, as the greater or less success accom-
panying it.
Friday, November 23rd — Saturday, November 2Uh.—
Something very surprising has happened, and which rives me
the greatest pleasure. My Prehear a la Ligne, which I had
given to the Ischia raffle, is at the HOtel Drouot, among a
collection of pictures ; the husband of one of the chamber-
maids came to tell us in amazement that a picture signed
Bashkirtseff was at the sale, and would be sold this evening.
Mamma and Dina went, and were present when it went
for one hundred and thirty francs. You will not think much
of one hundred and thirty francs, but I do. It had no frame,
only a mount worth twenty francs, so that my painting sold for
one hundred and ten francs at the Hdtel Drouot. The ladies
try to make me believe that it is two hundred and thirty, but
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610 MARIE BASHKIBTSEFF.
I saw quite plainly that the two was a one on the catalogua
Dina told the princess and others four hundred and thirty
francs. O truth ! Well, the one hundred and thirty are true.
Dina says that she thought everybody was looking at her, and
mamma turned her head away in terror. Really, I can't quite
believe it yet, it seems so delightful.
Wednesday, November 28th. — I painted a portrait of Dina,
a harmony in white, splendid. The young fady, in turning
over my albums yesterday, made me find an old design — the
murder of Caesar. It fired my imagination. I made notes of
a few tones at four o'clock in the open air ; for during the last
three days we have had the aurora borealis setting Paris
aflame. ... It was done in a cab ; I painted, and the cab
drove on. I was only looking out for tones. This done, I
come in and seize upon Suetonius and Plutarch. Montesquieu
adores the narrative of the murder in Plutarch. What an
Academician! How finely composed, how eloquent it is!
Whereas Suetonius makes you shudder; it is an official
report which curdles your blood. With what mysterious
power are great men invested that after several centuries
their lives and deaths make us shudder and weep ? I
have wept for Gambetta. Every time I read their history
I weep for Napoleon, Alexander, and Csesar. But Alexander
died badly, whereas Caesar ....
I shall paint this picture for myself — firstly, for the sake
of the sentiment, ana the crowd who are Romans; next
because there's anatomy and blood in it, and I am a woman,
and women have done nothing classical on a large scale
hitherto; and finally I want to use my gifts of composition
and drawing .... and because it will be very fine.
What bothers me is that it passes in the Senate
instead of in the open air ; it's a difficulty the less .... and
I should like them all ... . When I feel that I am attempt-
ing the most difficult things I suddenly grow very cold,
very determined ; I brace up my energies and concentrate
myself, and do much better than m works which are within
reach of my inferiora . There's no need to go to Rome to
paint this picture, and I shall begin it as soon as ... . and
yet in March and April spring gives such lovely tints to
the outside world. I intended painting the blossoming trees
at Argenteuil .... There's so much to do in lite, and
life is so short! I don't even know whether I shall have
time to carry out what is already conceived ....
The Holy Women .... The great bas-relief ! Spring I
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PARIS, 1883. 641
Julius Ccvsar — Ariadne. It makes me giddy. I should like
to do them all — all at once .... And they will have to be
done slowly .... in due order, with many delays and re-
vulsions and disenchantments .... Life is logical, and all
hangs together. And when Brutus, pursued by phantoms,
kills himself, I find myself crying out: "Well done, rascal —
well done, ignoble assassin ! "
To succeed in what is great ! don't think that I dream of
next year or even of the year after .... but later .... But
all the same, it is so intoxicating that I won't think of it.
Saturday, December 1st — Am I not acting the part of
dupe ? Who will give me back my best years ? spent . . .
perhaps in vain !
But I have a good answer to these doubts of the vxdgar
vie — that I really had nothing better to do ; everywhere else,
and living as others do, I should have had to suffer too
much .... and then I should not have reached this moral
development which gives me a kind of superiority ....
very trying to myselt. Stendhal had known at least one
or two people capable of understanding him ; but as for me,
it's frightful ; everybody is commonplace ; and those whom I
took for really clever, now appear stupid. Is it possible that
I have become what is called un etre incompris. I think
not, and yet .... But it seems to me that I have good
cause for surprise and annoyance when people believe me
capable of things of which I am quite incapable, and which
would compromise my dignity, my delicacy — nay, even my
very elegance. . . .
Is there any one who could understand me thoroughly,
to whom I could say everything? . . . Who could under-
stand all, and in whose conversation I should recognise my
own thoughts ? . . . Ah, my dear, that would be love !
Possibly; but without going so far it would be very
agreeable to find people who would judge one with intelli-
gence and with whom conversation would he possible .... I
don't know of any. Julian was the sole exception, and I begin
to find him more and more reserved. He becomes even irritat-
ing when he begins his interminable teasing jokes which don't
hit the mark, especially in matters of art : he doesn't under-
stand that I apprehend clearly and want to reach my aim ;
he thinks me wrapped up in myself .... And yet ....
at intervals he is still my confidant. Complete similarity
of feeling doesn't exist, apparently, unless one is in love;
for love can create miracles .... But on the contrary, is it
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642 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
not this complete similarity which gives birth to love ? — a
sister souL — As for me I think that this much-abused ex-
pression is very just. Ah well, who is this soul ? Somebody,
the tip of whose ear even I shall never see.
Not a word, not a look ought to be out of keeping with
the idea which I . . . . entertain. ... It isn't that I look
for an impossible perfection, for a being with nothing
human about him ; what I ask is that his errors shall appear
interesting to me, and not ruin him in my eyes; that he
shall correspond to my dream — not, indeed, the commonplace
dream of an impossible divinity ; but that everything about
him shall please me .... and that I shall not suddenly
discover in him some hidden want, something stale or
stupid or incomplete, or trivial, or petty, or false, or selfish ;
any one of these stains, however small, is enough to undo
everything.
Sunday, December 2nd. — My heart, in short, is empty,
quite, quite empty But 1 must have dreams to amuse
me. . . . Ana yet I have experienced nearly all those
things mentionea by Stendhal as belonging to true love,
which he calls the love-passion — all those thousand
vagaries of the imagination, all those childish follies he
speaks of. . . . That's why I have seen the most tire-
some people with delight, because on some one day they
came near my ideal.
For the rest, I think, that one who is always at work,
and pre-occupied with hopes of fame (be it a woman or a
man) does not love as those who have nothing else to do.
Balzac and Jules (not Caesar) have said it ; the sum of
energy is a fixed quantity ; if you spend it all to the right,
you have nothing for the left, or else the effort is less being
divided.
" If you send five hundred thousand men on the Rhine,
they can't at the same time remain in Paris."
It seems likely therefore that, according to this theory,
my tender sentiments slip over me, easily.
Monday, December 3rd. — Come now, I am intelligent
and just, I give myself credit for being clever and clear-
sighted .... in short, for every mental quality. Well, that
being the case, why should I not judge myself ? Surely that
ought to be possible, as I am clear-sighted Am I really
somebody, or shall I be somebody in art ? What do I think
of myself 1 Those are terrible questions, as 1 think badly
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PARIS, 1883 643
of myself, compared to the ideal I wish to reach ; on the other
hand, in comparison with others ....
It is difficult to judge oneself, and then .... from the
moment it isn't genius .... and I have not done anything
as yet to allow of a final judgment, even by myself.
And I am in despair about my work; no sooner is it
finished than I should like to begin it all over again ; I find
everything bad, because I am always ccmtjxiring it with what
I should like it to be. . . . But it is comforting to look
round ; we see those who do worse, and who are admired. . . .
Well, then, it's a matter of moods. At bottom, I confess, I
don't think much of my artist-self. I may as well say so (in
the hope of being mistaken). To begin with, if I believed I
had genius, I should never complain of anything. . . . But
genius is such a formidable word that I laugh in writing it of
myself, even if only to say that I lack it. . . . If I thought I
had genius, I should go mad with joy.
Well, well ! I don't think I have genius, but I hope the
world wilL
Monday, December 10th. — Modelling in the morning. In
the afternoon I paint the bodice and the bouquet of the head
that laughs. My model is a little good-for-nothing, half ballet-
dancer, half-model ; and she laughs funnily. I've done it.
Then by gaslight I did a drawing, a woman reading near an
open piano ! Done. If I got on like this every day, it would
be charming.
But fifty unknown painters are doing what I do and don't
complain of being stifled with genius, for if genius stifles you,
it shows you haven't any ; they who have, have the strength
to bear it.
The word genitts is like love, it cost me an effort to
write it for the first time ; but once I had done so, I have
used it constantly and on all occasions ; it is so with every-
thing that at first sight appears tremendous, terrifying, and
unattainable ; having overcome your nervousness, vou can't
have enough of it, as if to make up for your first hesi-
tation and shrinking. This clever remark doesn't seem very
clear, but I must spend my fluid; I have worked till seven
o'clock this evening ; having some left, I will let it run off'
my pen.
i am getting thin, well .... May God take pity on
me !
Tuesday, December 11th. — This morning, nothing! In the
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644 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
afternoon I sketched in the head of a little street girl of five,
laughing, and in profile. I intend doing five or six heads,
all laughing. It begins with one of eight months, then the
little girl of this afternoon. Then Armandine (the dancer of
Japhet), full face, in a hat and sealskin jacket, with a bunch
of violets on one shoulder. Then I shall put a masher in a
dress-coat sucking his stick, an innocent young girl next,
and finally an old man and woman. All of tnein in one
frame.
" Laughter is the distinctive faculty of man." These
different kinds of laughter may have something very comic.
And I shall do them very quickly, as in the case of Arman-
dine ; it would be for some minor exhibition.
Sunday, December 23rd. — True artists can't be happy ; to
begin with, they know that the mass can't understand them ;
they know that they are working for the few, that the others
follow their own baa taste or the Figaro. The general ignor-
ance in matters artistic, in all classes, is frightful
Those who speak well of art do so out of respect for what
they have read or heard from so-called competent judges. . . .
Well .... I think there are days on whicn one feels
all those trivialities too naively — days on which an inappro-
priate conversation seems more unendurable than on others,
when trifles make you suffer, when you endure actual pain
on hearing platituaes exchanged during a couple of hours
without a grain of gaiety or worldly polish to make them
palatable.
But you may have noticed that I am not one of those
chosen spirits that weep when forced to listen to the empty
drawing-room chatter, the petty gossip, the customary compli-
ments, the remarks on the weather and on the Italian opera. I
am not so silly as to insist on hearing interesting conversation
everywhere, and so-called commonplaces of society, which may
be lively, but are usually dull, do not annoy me ; it is an evil
I can endure, even with pleasure, at times ; but true dulness,
true stupidity, the want of ... . in short, the commonplaces
of society, and lack of spirit into the bargain.
That, indeed, is dying by inches.
Saturday, December 29th. — Oh, misery ! how dark, dreary,
and full of despair some days are ! All that scandalmonger-
ing, what will it not make people say, believe, invent . . .
But I have never done anything immoral ! And to think !
Oh my friends ! lose everything but keep up appearances !
These petty annoyances make me profoundly wretched.
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PARIS, 1883. 645
In talking nonsense one may be right, and yet infamously
in the wrong.
What bitter, despicable, petty things, which I am innocent
of, cannot be set right now. Oh ! wretchedness !
These are dark, dreary, desperate days. I am shamefully
calumniated.
And I have done nothing, as regards myself or others.
Claire and Villevielle are at work, and I weep as I write at the
other end of the library.
There are days when we give out light, and others when
we are like an extinguished lamp ; I am extinguished.
Monday, December 3l8t — The Mar^chale and Claire dined
yesterday with the Princess Mathilde, and Claire tells me that
Lefebvre said to her that he knew I had genuine talent, and
was a rather extraordinary person ; that I went into society
every evening, and (with a knowing air) was superintended,
guided by some eminent painters.
Claire, looking him straight in the eyes : " What eminent
painter, Julian— Lefebvre ?
"No; Bastien-Lepage."
Claire : " But you are entirely mistaken, Monsieur ; she
5;oes out very little, and works all the time. As to Bastien-
Lepage, she sees him in her mother's drawing-room, he never
goes into her studio."
She's a darling, that little girl, and she spoke the truth,
for Heaven knows that devil of a Jules never helps me in
anything. And yet Lefebvre seemed to believe it.
It is two o'clock ; it is the new year. At the theatre,
precisely at midnight, watch in hand I wished my wish in a
single word — a beautiful, sonorous, magnificent word, intoxi-
cating, whether it be written or spoken —
Fame!
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646
CHAPTER XII.
PARIS, 1884.— DEATH.
Wednesday, January 2nd. — Aunt Helene, my father's
sister, died a week ago. Paul telegraphed the news.
A second telegram to-day. Uncle Alexander has just
died of an apoplectic stroke. It's harrowing. And the
Eoor man adorea his family, and he had ended by loving
is wife to distraction. As he had never read Balzac, nor,
perhaps, any other novelist, he was not acquainted with
ready-made phrases; but I have not forgotten some things
he said, ana so his death grieves hie. It seems some
people tried to make him believe that the attentions of a
neighbour were acceptable to his wife, and I remember
hearing him say, "Well, supposing this infamy were true!
Is not my wife, whom I married at fifteen, my flesh, my
blood, my soul ? Are we not one? If I had sinned should
I not forgive myself? How is it possible I should not for-
r've my wife ; it is just as if, in order to punish myself,
were to tear out my eves, or cut off* one of my arms ! "
During my last stay in Russia he was always saying,
"You don't know, my little Marie, and I can't explain
myself, but you are so intelligent that you will understand
me. . . . Formerly I had so many anxieties — such a desire
to increase my means and to become rich, that I did not
consider my wife as I ought. But now that all is settled,
that I am no longer preoccupied as formerly by dry and
engrossing interests ; now I need only consider happiness and
my wife's wishes: my poor dear Nadine's, whom I adore.
Yes, everything is altered now. It would take too long to
explain, but everything is altered."
He leaves three children. fitienne is sixteen, Julie
fifteen, and Alexander is eight or ten months old. And
his poor wife is thirty-three.
Friday, January 4>th. — Yes, I am in a consumption,
and it progresses.
I am ilL No one knows it. But I am feverish every even-
ing. Everything goes wrong, and it bores me to speak of it !
Saturday, January 5th. — The opening of Manet's exhi-
bition at the ficole des Beaux- Arts!
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PARIS, 1884. 647
I go there with mamma
Manet has not been dead a year. I did not know
much about his work The general impression of this ex-
hibition is striking.
It is incoherent, childish, and grandiose. Some of his
works are perfectly crazy, and yet there are splendid bits.
Given a little more, and he would be one of the great
masters of painting. His work is generally ugly, sometimes
deformed, but always living. There are some splendid
impressions.
And even his worst things have a something which
prevents your feeling disgust or lassitude. There is so
much aplomb — such appalling self-confidence, joined to
an ignorance no less appalling. . . . It's like the childhood
of genius. And, agam, copies taken bodily from Titian
(the sketch of the woman and the ^ negro), from Velasquez,
Courbet, and Goya. But all these painters steal from one
another. What of Moliere, by the way? He has taken
whole pages, word for word. I have read it, I know.
Tuesday, January 8th. — Dina sits well, but for some
reason she doesn't reel the pose, and changes it without
moving. I should much prefer a woman who moved a
great deal, but occasionally sat just as she ought. . . . Or,
perhaps .... but never mind the reason, I don't get on,
that's all . . .
And as I don't give way to this inability, it's a
dreadful struggle, which prostrates me. My rage reaches
to a pitch when I appear extraordinarily calm, and all my
movements are as slow as a sick person's, while all the
time I long madly to break and tear everything.
Monday, January 14>th. — I feel as if I had taken a
journey to Damvillers. fimile Bastien has told us every-
thing — the plan of the picture, the manner of life. ... He
does nothing in the dark, and has not imposed silence on
us; no he has not .... If he has not invited us to see
the studies of Concarneau, the fact is he never invites any
one. He would even consider it conceited to invite people
to see a few studies done anyhow at Concarneau, whither ne
had gone to rest. In short, ne says that the friendly manner
in wnich he had been received at our house seemed to
do away with such formalities, and that he would have
been enchanted if we had come, &c. That he never invites
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648 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
any one, even to come and see his important pictures ; his
brother being only told to inform a few friends. . . .
But what concerns me more nearly is that he said to his
brother on being told about my picture —
" Why didn't you mention it in Paris, I would have gone
to see it."
" I said nothing to him in Paris, because if he had called
you would have hidden everything from him as usuaL He
Knows nothing of what you do, only what you exhibit You
turn your canvases to the wall Do you know he will never
want to look at your paintings again if you do so ? "
" He will if I like, if I ask him for advice."
" He will always be delighted to give you that"
" But I am not his pupil Alas ! " . . .
" And why not ? He would like nothing better ; he would
feel much flattered if you consulted him ; and he would give
you disinterested advice — advice full of common sense in short
For he is an excellent judge, apart from all bias .... and he
would be happy to have an interesting pupil . . . Believe
me, he would be very much flattered and pleased."
Wednesday, January 16th. — The architect told me that
among his brother's many ideas for pictures he has thought
of the Shepherds at Bethlehem.
My imagination has been busy for two days, and this
afternoon I have seen it clearly as in a vision. Yes, the
shepherds at Bethlehem — a sublime subject, and which he
will make still more sublime.
Yes, I have had such a clearly defined vision that I can
only compare my impression to that of the shepherds — a
sacred entnusiasm and complete adoration.
Yes, during two or three hours I was madly in love
through admiration. But you won't be able to understand
that
Do you feel all the mystery, the tenderness, the grand
simplicity he will put in it ? It is possible to imagine if you
know his works, and are able to discover the mysterious and
fantastic affinities between Jeanne d'Arc and the Evening in
tlie Village, the effect of which will be reproduced in some
form in the shepherds. Don't you find it fascinating in me
to get enthusiastic over pictures that I have never seen, and
which don't exist as yet ? Admitting that the majority will
find me ridiculous, two or three dreamers will agree witn me,
and for that matter I can do without them.
Jeanne d'Arc was not understood in France, and in
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PARIS, 1884. U9
America they knelt down before it. Jeanne d'Arc is a
masterpiece m execution and sentiment
You should have heard Paris speaking of it It was a shame !
Is it possible that success should attend the Phsedras and
Auroras ? In short . . . Has the public cared for Millet, Rous-
seau, Corot ? It cared for them when they became the fashion.
The want of sincerity of the enlightened is a disgrace to
our times ; they pretend to think this style of art is neither
serious nor dignified, and they praise " those who follow the
traditions of the old masters." Need I explain or dwell upon
the obtusenesfc of these reasonings ?
What is high art, I ask, if not that art which — while
painting the flesh, the hair, the clothes, the trees to perfection,
as if you could touch them, so to speak — paints the soul, the
spirit, the life of things, at the same time ? Jeanne d'Arc,
forsooth, is not high art, because she is depicted as a peasant
girl at home, and not in armour and with white hands.
No, L 'Amour an Village is inferior to Jeanne d'Arc, and
the idiotic or perfidious cntics would confine him to a single
line by their praise, indignant that a man who has painted
peasants should dare paint anything else, should paint an
nistorical peasant like Jeanne d'Arc.
Hypocritical Pharisees !
For all of us, no matter who, we aim at painting flesh ;
but we have not that something beyond — in short, the divine
inspiration . . . which he possesses. And who else besides ?
Why, no one. In the eyes of his portraits I see the life of
the persons; I seem to know them. I have tried to carry
away the same impression from other portraits, but have not
succeeded.
Do you prefer the execution of a Lady Jane Grey or a
Bajazet with the limpid and living eyes of some chance little
girl?
The quality of this incomparable artist is only to be found
in the religious pictures of Italy, when the artists believed
in what they painted.
Has it ever happened to you to be alone in the country
at evening under a perfectly clear sky, and to be moved and
possessed oy a mysterious sentiment, by aspirations to the
infinite ; to feel as if in the expectation of some great event,
of something supernatural ? And have you never lost yourself
in reveries transporting you to unknown worlds ? . . . .
If not .... you will never understand, and I advise you
to buy an Aurora by Bouguereau, or an historical picture by
Cabanei
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650 MARIE BASHKlRTSEFF
All this, dear angel, to say you adore the genius of little
Bastien.
Yea
Now it's done, and you can go to bed Amen.
Sunday, January 20th. — It's sad, but I have no friend ;
I love nobody, and nobody loves me.
If I have no friend, I know it is because, in spite of
myself, I allow it to be seen from what a height "I look
down on the crowd."
No one likes to be humiliated. I could take comfort by
remembering that really superior natures have never been lovea
People surround them and warm themselves in their rays, but
at bottom they are execrated and slandered ; whenever it's
possible. There is some talk at present about raising a statue
to Balzac, and the papers are publishing reminiscences and
information obtained from the friends of the great man. From
such friends may heaven protect one !
They seem to vie with each other as to who shall divulge
a bad quality, an absurdity, a meanness.
I prefer enemies, they find less credit
Saturday, February 28th. — The Mar^chale and Claire have
arrived about one o'clock to receive Madeleine Lemaire, who
has come to see the picture. This lady is a celebrated
painter in water-colours as well as a woman of the world ; she
sells her pictures at very high prices. She only made flatter-
ing remarks, naturally.
I am in a bad temper, savage. It is probably because I
shall die soon ; but all my life with all its details comes back
to me from the beginning, foolish things that make me cry ;
I have never been much to balls like other girls ; three or
four balls in the course of the year ; I might have gone often
during the last two years when I could no longer enjoy them.
Is it a great artist who feels these regrets? Dear me,
yes ! . . . . And now ? Now there are other things than balls
to think of, there are conversaziones where you meet all those
who think, write, paint, work, sing, all that makes up the life
of intelligent beings.
The most philosophic and thoughtful don't scout the
idea of meeting the flower of the intellect of Paris once
a week or twice a month. I don't know exactly why I
enter into such explanations. I am going to die. I have
always been unfortunate in everything ! By dint of work I
am making my way in society, and yet it's humiliating.
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PARIS, 1884. 651
It makes one too unhappy not to hope that there is a
God who will take pity on us. .... but if this God existed
would he suffer the things to happen that do ; and what have
I done to be so unhappy?
It is not the reading of the Bible that inspires us with
faith. It is only an historical document, in wnich all that
relates to God is childish.
We can only believe in one God .... abstract, philoso-
phical, a great mystery, earth, heaven, the All. Pan.
But in that case He is a God- who can do nothing for
us. We admire this God," and imagine Him when looking
at the stars, and thinking of scientific and spiritual ques-
tions, & la Renan. . . . But a God who sees everything;
who is occupied with everything, of whom we can ask every-
thing .... In such a God I would fain believe. But if He
existed would He suffer things to be as they are ?
Tuesday \ March 11th. — I trains. But that's not it. . . I feel
ilL . . . Everything is so unjust. Heaven overwhelms me. . .
Well, I am still at ai^ age when there is intoxication even
in death itsel£
No one, it seems to me, no one loves everything as I do —
the tine arts, music, painting, books, society, dress, luxury,
excitement, calm, laughter and tears, love, melancholy,
humbug, the snow ana the sunshine ; all the seasons, all
atmospheric effects, the silent plains of Russia, and the
mountains round Naples ; the frost in winter, autumn rains,
spring with its caprices, quiet summer days, and beautiful
nights bright with stars. ... I admire, I adore it alL Every-
thing appears to me in an interesting or sublime aspect; I
should like to see, possess, embrace it all, be absorbed in it,
and die, since I must, in two years or in thirty — die in an
ecstasy, in order to analyse this final mystery, this end of
all or this divine beginning.
This universal love is not one of the sensations of con-
sumptives ; I was always like this, and remember writing
something exactly like tnis ten years ago, in 1874, after speak-
ing of the charms of the different seasons. Impossible to choose,
for all the seasons are beautiful ... all the year — all our life.
We want it all ! a part is not enough.
We want nature, compared to her everything else is poor.
In short everything in life pleases me, I find it all agree-
able, and while I ask for happiness I find myself happy ir"
being miserable. My body weeps and cries, but my nigher
self rejoices in living all the same.
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652 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
The dear good Tony Robert Fleury dines here this evening ;
he says my gamins have been inucn improved, that in fact
it's really good, and will be noticed at the Salon.
1 forgot to say that my gamins are called Le Meeting.
Wednesday, March 10th. — Dina's portrait won't be finished,
so I shall only send Le Meeting.
This evening a select gathering at Mine. Hochon's ; a great
many artists and somebodies, like the Duchess of Uz&s, the
Countess Cornet, the Mar^chale, and ourselves. Among artists
there were Cabanel, Jalabert, Siebert, G. Ferrier, Boulanger, &c
We have some music, and Salvayre plays and sings passages
from his Henri III. All these people were amiable to me,
and Cabanel too.
Saturday, March 15th. — Abbema came to see my picture
this morning.
It seemed as if the 15th would never come . . . The
weather is glorious, and on Monday or Tuesday I am going
to paint in the country. I won't admire Bastien-Lepage any
more ; I hardly know him, he is very reserved, and it is better
to cultivate your own talent than to spend your energies in
admiring others.
Sunday, March 16th. — The pictures have been sent I
return at half-past six, so tired and completely worn-out that
it is quite a luxury. . . . You don't believe it can be ? Well,
to my taste, every complete sensation, pushed to its utmost
limit, even if painful, is an enjoyment
I remember when I hurt my finger once, the pain was
so violent during half an hour that I enjoyed it.
It is just so with this evening's prostration ; my body,
offering no longer any resistance to the air, felt relaxed by
a bath, and I lay full-length on the bed, with languid arms
and legs, and my head full of misty incoherent things. . . .
I went to sleep, now and then saying some word out
loud bearing on things that were passing confusedlv through
my mind .... Cabanel, varnishing .... the Mar£chale,
Breslau .... painting, Algiers, the line, Wolff !
Wednesday, March 19th. — I found an orchard, and only
returned at eight o'clock, very tired. People to dinner.
At the club of the Russian artists there was an election
yesterday. Everybody voted for me.
Claire met a gentleman who went to see Bastien-Lepage,
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PARIS, 1884. 653
and found him very ill ; on the following day this gentleman
saw the doctor, who said : " He is very 01, but I don't believe
that it is rheumatism ; that's where he's ill " (tapping his
stomach). Then he really is ill ? He went to Blidah three
or four days ago accompanied by his mother.
Saturday, March 22nd. — Have not yet begun at Sevres,
but I have found it.
Julian writes : " You are received with No. 3 at least"
What does that at least mean ?
Thank heaven, I never doubted that I should get in.
Monday, March 24sth. — For the last few days I feel in a
kind of haze .... which cuts me off from the universe and
shows me the reality in my inmost self. And so ... . No,
things are too sad for complaint .... it's a dull depres-
sion. I have just been re-reading an admirable book which
I didn't much admire a few years ago — Madame Bovary.
The literary form, the style .... yes . . . ; in short, is
is all in the execution.
But that isn't the question; through the mental fo|
that envelops me I see realities more clearly; such har<
and bitter realities that to write them down will make me
cry. But I can't even write them down. What's the good
oi it ? What's the good of anything ? To have passea six
years in working ten hours a day to reach what ? The begin-
ning of talent and a mortal illness ? I went to see my doctor
to-day and talked so amiably that he said : " I see that you
are as gay as ever."
If I persist in thinking that " fame " is to repay me for
everything, I must live, and in order to live I must take care
of mvself.
What an outlook, what frightful realities.
We can never believe .... until .... I remember
when I was quite little, and travelling for the first time by
rail, and for the first time in contact with strangers, that I
had taken up two places with all kinds of things, when two
travellers came in. " These places are taken," said I, with an
air of authority. " All right," replied the gentleman, " I will
call the guard."
I took it for one of those family threats, one of those fibs
I heard at home, and nothing can describe the strange chill
that crept over me when the guard cleared the seat, and the
traveller immediately occupiea it. That was the first reality.
I have for a long time now tried to scare myself witn
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654 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
thoughts of illness without believing in it ... . Really ....
I would not have had time to tell you all these troubles, but
I have been expecting my model, and while doing nothing I
had to grumble.
There's a March wind with a grey, leaden sky.
I began a pretty large picture yesterday in the old
orchard at Sevres — a voung girl sitting under a flowering
apple-tree, with a path losing itself in the distance, and every-
where branches of fruit-trees in blossom, fresh green grass,
violets and little yellow flowers. The woman sits dreaming
with closed eyes, ner head resting on her left hand with elbow
on knee.
It ought to be very simple, and full of the exhalations
of spring, which set the woman dreaming. There must be
sunlight coming through the branches.
It is six feet wide and a little more in height.
So I have only been accepted with a No. 3, and may not
be hung on the line after alL
Then I shall get utterly discouraged and hopeless; it
won't be anybody's fault, since I have no talent .... Yes,
this shows me clearly that if I lose hope in my art, I shall
die at once. If this hope should fail me, as it does this evening
. . . without exaggeration there will be nothing left but death
Thursday, March 27th. — Engrossed with my work Why
have I not yet produced anything as good in painting as the
pastel done two years ago ?
Monday, March Slst. — Hardly done anything ; my picture
will be badly hung and I shall get no medal
After that I took a very hot bath for more than an hour,
and had spitting of blood.
How foolish, vou will say; possibly, but I have no
common-sense left, I am discouraged and half maddened
with my struggles.
What shall I say or do ? if this goes on I shall be done for
in eighteen months, but if I could keep a little quieter I
might live another twenty years.
Yes, this No. 3 is a bitter pill to swallow. Zilhardt and
Breslau have got No. 2. And I . . . . There are forty men
on the selecting committee, and it seems that there were
so many voices in favour of my having No. 2 that it was
thought I had it. Suppose I have had fifteen voices for
and twenty-live against me. Those twenty-five .... The
committee consisted of fifteen or twenty well-known men,
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PARIS, 1884. 665
and the rest are intriguing nobodies who paint atrociously.
That's quite notorious; Still, the fact remains, but it's a
heavy blow. And yet I am clear-sighted and can see myself ;
no, there's nothing for it. .... I begin to think that if my
picture had been very good ....
Ah! never, never, never have I sounded the depths of
despair as I have to-day. As long as you are sliding down it is
not yet death ; but to touch with your feet the black and slimy
bottom, to say to yourself, " It isn't the fault of circumstances,
nor of your family, nor of the world, but your own want of
talent." Ah ! it is too horrible, for there's no appeal from it,
no power human or divine that can help. It's not possible to
go on working, everything seems finished.
Well, here you have a complete sensation! Absolute
disgust? Yes. Well, according to your theories, it should
be an enjoyment — I am caught
I don't care, I will take bromide, that'll send me to sleep ;
and then God is great, and I always find some little con-
solation after such profound grief
But to think that I can't even tell this to any one,
exchange ideas, find comfort in talking. .... No, there's no
one, no one !.-...
Blessed are the poor in spirit : blessed are those who have
faith in a kind Providence they can appeal to! Appeal to
about what ? Because I have no talent ?
You see for yourself. I have reached the bottom. I
must enjoy it
I should if my sufferings had any witnesses.
The sorrows of people, who have afterwards become
famous are told by their friends, for they have friends —
people they talk to. I have none. And if I went on
lamenting ! If I were to say, " No, I shall paint no more ! "
What then ? It's no loss to any one — I have no talent.
Then all those things I have to keep to myself which
don't matter to anybody. . . . This is the worst, the most
humiliating of tortures — to know, to feel, to believe yourself
that you are nothing.
If this continues I shall not survive it
Tuesday, April 1st — My state of mind continues the same,
but as I must needs have recourse to some expedient, I say to
myself that I may be mistaken. But by dint of weeping my
eyes are blurred.
They say, " Oh ! the number doesn't matter a bit, you
know. They manage it anyhow." And what of the place ?
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656 MARIE IBASHKIRTSEFF.
Wednesday, April 2nd. — I have been to Petit's Exhi-
bition, Rue de Seze. I spent an hour looking at the incom-
parable pictures of Bastien-Lepage and Cazin.
Afterwards I went to Robert Fleury, saying, quite gaily,
as if I were curious, " Tell ine, Monsieur, how things passed
at the committee ? "
" Oh, very well ! When your picture was shown they
said — not one or two of them, but a whole group — ' Ah,
tlud's good /—a No. 2 ! ' "
" On, Monsieur, is it possible ? "
" Yes ; I assure you I don't say so to please you. Then
we voted, and if our president that day nad not happened
to be a dunderhead you would have had No. 2. Your
picture was considered good, and elicited much sympathy."
"And I have No. 3."
" Yes ; but only due to a kind of ill-luck — for you
ought to have had No. 2."
" But what fault do they find with the picture ? "
"None."
" Don't they consider it bad, then ? "
" It is good ; on the contrary."
"But why then?"
" It's an unfortunate accident, that's alL And if you were
to get a member of the selecting committee to ask that it
should be hung on the line, they would do so, for it is good."
" And you ? "
"I am a member of the hanging committee, and my
special function is to see that the order of the numbers is
observed ; but if one of us were to ask to have it changed, you
may be sure I shall make no objection."
Afterwards at Julian's, who rather laughs at Robert
Fleury's advice, and says that I may set my heart at rest,
and that he will be much surprised if I am not on the
line, and that .... For that matter Robert Fleury
assured me, on his soul and conscience, that I deserve a
No. 2, and that, morally speaking, I have it. Morally!
For it would only be simple justice.
Ah no ! to ask as a favour what is due to me is too much 1
Friday, April Ath. — No doubt Bastien-Lepage's exhibi-
tion is a brilliant one, but most of the pictures are old
ones. There are: — first, a portrait of Mine. Drouet of last
year; secondly, another portrait of 1882; thirdly, a land-
scape, with two laundresses, and an apple-tree in flower, also
of 1882; fourthly, the picture with wnich he competed for
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PARIS, 1884. 667
the Prix de Rome (he only took the second Prix de Rome)
of 1875; and there was a sketch done at Concarneau last
summer — that makes five.' La Mare de Damvillers, six;
Les Bids ou les Faucheurs — you only see a little reaper from
behind.
An old beggar carrying wood in a forest — that makes
eight. The pond of Damvillers, the reapers, and the old
beggar, are in full sunlight, and if any one can show me
many landscape painters of such merit I shall be surprised.
A great artist like him, in fact, can have no sp6cialit&
1 know I have seen an Andromeda by Bastien-Lepage,
which, though small, is a study of the nude such as no
one else can do. It had everything — finish, character,
nobility of form, grace of movement, delicacy of tones. And
the treatment was at once large and refined, and the flesh
painting might have been nature itself. When he wanted
to produce a twilight effect he painted the Soir an Village,
which is simply a masterpiece. This note of distinction — k
la Millet — has, perhaps, been surpassed. ... I say & la
Millet to make myself understood, for Bastien is only
like himself; and if Millet has painted evenings and moon-
lights, there are plenty left for others to paint, thank
Heaven.
That Soir au Village has a magical effect : why did I not
buy it ?
He has also done views of London, with the Thames,
where you positively see the water running — that dull heavy
water which turns as it flows, so to speak. And then his
little portraits are among the most beautiful things, as beau-
tiful as any of the same kind by the old masters. And his
life-size portrait of his mother can no longer be called paint-
ing at all, for it's nature itself, seen near or at a distance.
And as to Jeanne d'Arc — that's an inspiration of genius.
He is thirty-five. Raphael died at thirty-seven, and had
done more. But Raphael from the age of twelve was dandled
on the knees of duchesses and cardinals, who made him
work under the great Perugino, and Raphael, at fifteen,
made copies of his master, which could not be distinguished
from the original, and from the age of fifteen he was anointed
a great artist. Aiid as for his great canvases, as astonishing
from the time they must have taken, as on account of their
qualities, his pupils did the main part of the work, so that all
we have of Raphael in many of his pictures are the cartoona
Whereas Bastien-Lepage, in order to exist in Paris during
the first years, sorted letters at the Post Office from three to
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658 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
seven o'clock in the morning. He exhibited for the first time,
I believe, in 1869.
And, in short, he foimd neither duchesses, cardinals, nor
a Perurino. But already at his village he had taken all the
prizes for drawing. I believe it was only when he was fifteen
or sixteen that he came to Paris.
It is a better lot than mine, however, for / always lived in
non-artistic surroundings, taking a few lessons in my child-
hood, like all children, and then about fifteen lessons, of an
hour each, during three or four years, and always amid those
same surroundings. . . . That leaves me six years and a
few months ; but I must deduct some journeys arid a serious
illness. . . . And where am I now ? Am I where Bastien was
in 1874 ? To ask myself such a question is insane.
If I were to say in society or even to artists what I write
of Bastien, people would say I was a lunatic ; some because
they think so, others on principle, and in order not to admit
the superiority of a young man.
Saturday, April 5th. — Here are my plans : —
To begin with, I shall finish the Sevres picture, then in
good earnest I shall take the statue in hand in the morning,
and in the afternoon do a study from the nude — the sketch
has been done to-day. This will take me to the month of
July. In July I shall begin Le Soir, a highway without trees,
a plain, with a road losing itself in the sky at sunset.
On the road a waggon drawn by two oxen, filled with hay,
on which an old fellow is lying on nis stomach, his chin in his
hands. His profile stands out black against the setting sun.
The oxen are driven by a boy.
It must be simple, grand, poetical, &c. &c.
When I have (lone these two or three little things which I
have already begun, I shall go to Jerusalem, where I shall
pass the winter for my picture and my health.
And next May Bastien will proclaim me a great artist
I mention this, for it's interesting to see how our plans
turn out.
Svmday, April 6th. — This evening my aunt has left for
Russia
Saturday, April 12th. — Julian writes that the picture is
on the line.
Wednesday, April 16th. — I go to Sevres every day, this
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PARIS, 1884. 659
Incture possesses rae. The apple-tree is in blossom ; the
eaves, of a light green, are beginning to come out, and the
sunlight plays on this lovely verdure of spring. There are
violets in the grass, and yellow flowers that burst forth like
small suns. The air is balmy, and the girl who dreams,
leaning against the tree is "languishing and intoxicated"
as Anar6 Theuriet says. It woula be fine if I succeeded in
rendering this effect of sap in the spring, and of sunlight.
Tuesday, April 29th. — To-morrow is varnishing day ;
to-morrow morning I shall see the Figaro, and the Gaidois.
What will they say ? Nothing ? Something good or bad ?
Wednesday, April 30th. — The failure is not complete, for
the Gaidois speaks very well of me. I have a notice all to
myself It is very chic, by Fourcaud, the Wolff of the
Gaidois; and the Ganlois, which publishes a plan of the Salon
on the same day as the Figaro, must have as much, or nearly
as much influence, it seems to me.
The Voltaire, which issues a similar number, treats me like
the Gaidois. They are capital notices.
The Joiirnul des Arts, which publishes a bird's-eye view
of the Exhibition, mentions me. The Intransigeant, in a
similar number, treats me well also. The other papers will
give an account in diie time. Only the Figaro, the Gavlo'ts,
and the Voltaire, appear with their notices on the morning of
varnishing day.
Am 1 satisfied ? It's a simple question. Neither too
much nor too little ....
There has been just sufficient to prevent my feeling quite
miserable, that's all
I have come back from the Salon. We only went at noon
and did not leave till 5 o'clock, an hour before it closes . .
I have a headache.
We remained a long time on the seat before the picture.
It was much looked, at, and I laughed to think that no
one would suspect the artist in the elegant young lady who
was sitting there with her little feet in such trim boots.
Ah ! it's ever so much better than last year, all this !
Is it a success ? In the real, serious meaning of the word
of course ? Almost, I declare.
Breslau has exhibited two portraits, I have only seen
one which surprised me a good deal It's an imitation of
Manet which displeases me. It is not as strong as her things
used to be. To tell the truth, what I am going to say
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660 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
may be horrid, but I am not displeased on that account
Neither am I glad of it, however ; there is room for every-
body. But I confess that I prefer it should be so.
feastien-Lepage has only his little picture of last year :
La Forge.
It is an old blacksmith in the gloom of his sniithy.
Quite as good as the darkest little pictures in the Museums.
He is not well enough yet to paint. The poor architect
looks sad, and says that ne will throw himself into the water.
I also am sad, and believe that in spite of my painting,
my sculpture, my literature, my music, yes, in spite of every-
thing, I really believe I am bored.
Saturday, May 3rd. — fimile Bastien-Lepage comes at
half-past eleven and I go down much surprisecL
He has a lot of things to tell me. 1 have achieved a
real big success.
" Not a success considered in relation to yourself or your
fellow-students at the atelier, but a popular success. — I saw
Ollendorff yesterday, who told me that if it had been a French-
man's work, the State would have bought it ' Yes, he is a
very strong man that M. Bashkirtseff/ The picture is signed
M. Bashkirtseff.) Then I told him that you were a young
girl, adding ' and a pretty one.' (Oh ! he was quite taken
aback. AD the world speaks of it as a great success."
Ah! I begin to believe in it a little. For fear of
believing too much, I only allow myself to feel a limited
amount of satisfaction, such as you would hardly give me
credit for. In short, I shall be the last to believe that people
believe in me.
A true and very great artistic success, says Emile Bastien.
A success like Jules Bastien's in 1874 or 75 ? Oh Lord !
Well, I am not yet overflowing with delight, as I can hardly
believe it
I ought to be overflowing with delight This excellent
friend asks me to sign a paper authorising Charles Baude, the
engraver and an intimate friend of his brother, to engrave my
picture.
Baude is going to photograph and engrave my picture
for the Monde Illustri\ that's well
He also told me that Friant, a man of talent, is
enthusiastic about my picture.
People I don't know speak of me, discuss and judge ma
Oh what happiness! Ah! I can hardly believe it in spite
of having waited and wished for it so long !
I did well to wait before giving my permission about
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PARIS, 1884. 661
having it photographed. I had a letter the day before
yesterday asking for it. I prefer it to be Baude, he whom
feastien-Lepage calls Chariot, and to whom he writes letters
of eight pages.
I must go down to mamma's drawing-room to receive
the congratulations of all the idiots who think that my
painting is the amusement of a woman of the world, and
whopay the same compliments to Alice and other little fools.
There !
I think it is Rosalie who feels my success most acutely.
She is beside herself with delight, and speaks to me with
the emotion of an old nurse — telling her stories, now to the
right, now to the left, like a portiere. In her eyes some-
thing has happened, an event has taken place.
Monday, May 5th, — To die is a word which is easily
said and written, but to think, to believe that one is going
to die soon ? Do I really believe it ? No, but I fear it
It is of no use trying to hide the fact ; I am consumptive.
The right lung is much damaged, and the left one has
also become slightly diseased in the last year. In short,
both sides are impaired, and with another kind of
frame I should be almost wasted. I am rounder than
iuost young girls, apparently, but I am not what I used
to be. A jear ago I was still in splendid condition,
without bemg stout or fat ; now mv arms are no
longer firm, and at the upper part near the shoulders you
feel the bone instead of seeing a round, firmly shaped
shoulder. I look at myself every morning while bathing.
My hips are still fine but the muscles of the knee begin to
show. The legs are good. In short, 1 am hopelessly
undermined. Unhappy creature, take care of yourself !
I do take care of myself, and have cauterised both sides
of my breast ; I shall not be able to wear a low dress for
four months ; and I shall have to renew these cauterisations
from time to time in order to sleep. There's no hope of
Getting well, it looks as if I were taking too gloomy a view,
ut no, it is the simple truth. But there are so many things
to do besides these cauterisations ! I do them alL Cod-liver
oil, arsenic, goats' milk. They have bought me a goat.
This may lengthen my life, but I am lost. Indeed, I
have been too much harassed. I die of it, it's logical but
horrible.
There are so many interesting things in life ! Take
reading alone.
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062 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
I have just had a complete edition of Zola brought me,
a complete one of Renan, and several volumes of Taine ;
I prefer Taine's Revolution to Michelet's. Michelet is
vaporous and obscure in spite of his determination to
be sublime. I like the Revolution better after reading
Taine than Michelet, although they say that Taine wished
to show its dark sides.
What of painting ?
At such times we should like to believe in a kind
Providence which does all for the best
Tuesday, May 6th. — I shall lose my head over literature.
I am reading the whole of Zola. He is a giant
Dear Frenchmen, here is one more wnoin you seem
to misunderstand !
Wednesday, May 7th. — I got a letter from Dusseldorf,
asking for permission to engrave and publish my picture
and other pictures by me if I have no objection.
How amusing ! I don't yet believe that it has happened,
you know. No doubt it's a success ; everybody assures
me of it; nobody said so last year; last year my pastel
enjoyed a smaU artistic success, but this year ....
Nevertheless it's not a clap of thunder. No. And if my
name is announced in a drawing-room this evening people
will not turn round, unless indeed the drawing-room be
full of painters. In order that .... a ... . success should
reach my heart and make me happy, it must needs be that
Yes, it would need that at the announcement of my name
all conversation should cease, and every head turn round.
There is not a paper since the opening of the exhibition
in which my picture is not mentioned ; but it is not yet
quite what I wanted. This morning there is a leading article
by fitincelle: Les Mondaines — women of the world — painters
It's very chic ! I am mentioned immediately after Claire. I
have as many lines as she I — I am a Greuze, I am blonde with
profound eyes and the strong-willed brow of a person destined
to make her mark I am very elegant, have considerable
talent, and my realism is of a good kind, in the style of
Bastien-Lepage. There ! That isir t all ; I have the smile and
captivating grace of a child ! And I am not beside myself !
No, not at all
Thursday, May 8th. — I do a little work at home.
What can be the reason that Wolff has said nothing
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PARIS, 1884. 663
of my picture ? It's possible he may not have seen it ; in
doing room 17 he may have been absent-minded. It can't be
that I am unworthy to be noticed by this eminent critic,
for he notices people far less noticeable.
In that case it is my usual ill-luck, as with No. 3. For my
part I don't believe in ill-luck It's too simple, and makes
one ridiculous; it must be my want of merit.
And the surprising part of it is that it's true.
Friday, May 9th. — I read and adore Zola. His criticisms
and studies are quite admirable; and I am madly in love
with him. What would one not do to please a man like
that! Do you think me capable of being m love like other
people. On, heavens !
Well, then, I have loved Bastien-Lepage as I love Zola
whom I have never seen, who is forty-four years old, married,
and pot-bellied. Don't you think the men of the world, those
men we marry, are awfully ridiculous ? What on earth should
I have to say to such a gentleman in the course of a day ?
l5mile Bastien dines with us and tells me to expect him
with M. Hayem a well-known picture-buyer, on Thursday
morning.
He nas pictures by Delacroix, Corot, Bastien-Lepage, and
prides himself on discovering the great painters of the future.
The day after the portrait of Bastien-Lepage's grandfather
was exhibited, Hayem came to his studio and gave him a
commission to paint the portrait of his own father.
His instinct seems to be astounding. firnile Bastien met
him to-day before my picture.
" What do you think of this ? "
" I think it very good ; do you know the artist ? Is he
young ? ' &c. &c.
Tnis Hayem has had his eye upon me ever since last year,
when he noticed the pastel, as this year the picture.
In short, they are coining on Thursday. He wants to buy
something of me.
Monday, May 12th. — After truly glacial weather we have
had 28 ana 29 degrees Reaumur since for days.
It is very trying. I finish the study of a little girl in the
garden in hopes of the connoisseur's visit
I forgot to say that we met Hecht on the staircase of the
Op6ra, and he was enthusiastic about my picture.
All the same, it's not yet the thing. But when Bastien-
Lepage exhibited the portrait of his grandfather, it was not
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664 MARIE BASEKIBTSEFF.
the right thing, either. No doubt, but never mind .... As
I must die soon, I should like ....
Everything leads me to think that Bastien-Lepage has a
cancer in the stomach. Is he doomed, then ? Perhaps they
are mistaken. The poor child can't sleep. It's ridiculous ! And
his concierge probalbly enjoys excellent health. Ridiculous !
Tliursday, May 15th. — At ten o'clock this morning E.
Bastien came with M. Hayem.
How funny ? It doesn't seem possible. I am an artist
with talent, quite seriously. And here's a man like this
M. Hayem comes to see me, and is interested in what I am
doing ! is it possible ?
E. Bastien is quite delighted. He said to me the other
day, " It seems as if it had happened to me." The dear boy is
very unhappy. I don't think his brother will get over it . . .
May 16th. — All this afternoon I have been walking up
and down my rooms, pleased on the whole, and with little
shivers running down my spine at the thought of the medal
The medal is for the public at large ; I prefer on the whole
such a success as mine, without a medal, to some medals.
Saturday, May 17th. — I have returned from the Bois,
where I went with the Demoiselles Staritzky, who are passing
through Paris; and I found Bagnitsky, who told me that some
people had been talking of the Salon at Bogolubolf s, the
artist, and that some one said to some one else that my
picture is like the pictures of Bastien-Lepage.
I am flattered on the whole by the attention my picture
has attracted. I am envied, I am abused, I am somebody.
And I may be permitted to pose a little if it please me.
Nothing of the kind, for I say in a pained voice, " Don't
you think it's dreadful ; is it not enough to depress me ? I
have passed six years, the best six years of my life, in working
like a galley-slave ; seeing no one and denying myself every
pleasure ! At the end of six years I produce a good piece of
work, and there are persons who actually say I have been
helped ! " The reward of taking so much trouble is changed
to an atrocious calumny !
I am standing on a bear's skin while I say this, with
slackly hanging arms, sincere yet shamming at the same
time. Then my mother takes it quite seriously, and drives
me to despair.
Here is mamma : " Suppose they give the honorary medal
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FABIS, 1884. 665
to X " I naturally exclaim that it would be a shame,
an insult, that I am indignant, furious, &c. Mamma : " No,
no, don't be so excited ! Good heavens ! they haven't given
it him ! It's not true ! He hasn't got it. And if they nave
given it him it's done on purpose ; they know your temper,
thev know it'll drive you frantic. And they do it on purpose,
and you are taken in like a little goose ; isn't it so ? "... .
It's not even an accusation, only a premature supposition ;
wait till X has his honorary medal and you will see !
Another example. The novel of the contemptible Y ,
who is at present the fashion, has reached I don't know how
many editions. I started with indignation. Never! is this
the garbage which the majority aevour and prefer?
temporal mores! Will you bet that mamma begins
holding forth again as before ? It has happened already on
various occasions. She is afraid that I shall break down, that
I shall die at the least shock, and in her immense naivetd, she
wishes to shield me by means which will end in giving me a
brain fever.
Say X, Y, or Z comes and tells us, " Do you know that the
ball at Larochefoucauld's was splendid ? "
I grow depressed.
Mamma notices it, and live minutes afterwards she begins
telling something, as if casually, in order to belittle the ball
in my opinion ; unless, indeed, she tries to prove to me that
there hasn't been any ball at all
We have had that too. Childish inventions and excuses
being made, while I am filming with rage to think it could be
supposed I could swallow them !
Tuexday, May 20th. — At the Salon at ten o'clock with
M. H . He says that my picture is so good that people
say I have been helped.
How shameful !
He has also the impudence to say that Bastien could
never compose a picture, that he can pamt portraits, and that
his pictures are only portraits, but that he can't paint the
nude. This Jew is astounding.
He refers to the medal, and says he will attend to it ; that
he knows all the members on the committee, &c.
On coming away we go to see Robert Fleury. I tell him,
in an excited tone, that they accuse me of not having painted
my picture.
He has heard nothing of the kind ; he said it was never
thought of by the committee, and should they say so he
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666 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
would be there. He thinks ine much more moved than I
really am, and we take him back to lunch that he may calm
and comfort us. How can you allow everything to move you
so much ? Such tilth should be sent flying with a kick.
" I wish they would say it before me in the committee,"
he exclaimed, " I would put a stop to it. If any one dare say
so, I shall make him repent, I can tell you."
" Oh ! thank you, Monsieur."
" Not at all, this is not a question of friendship, it's the
simple truth, and I know it better than any one."
He goes on assuring us of these pleasant things, and of the
chances I have of getting the medal, — one can never tell ; — but
it seems that there are a good many chances in my favour.
Saturday, May ZUh. — It is jjust a year since it was
finished. But this year the Salon will only reopen on Tuesday ;
so that that day corresponds to the 21st May of last year.
The first and second-class medals have been adjudged to-day.
To-morrow will come the turn of the third class.
It is hot, and I am tired. The France IUustrde asks for
permission to reproduce my picture. Also soiuebody named
Jjecadre. I sign, I sign : Reproduce !
They evidently give medals for things much inferior to
my picture ! Oh, I am quite calm ; real talent is sure to
come to the front, for all that ; only it retards and bothers
ou. I prefer not to count upon it. An honorary mention
las been promised me witnout fail ; the medal is pro-
blematical, but it would be unjust!
Evidently !
E
Sunday, May 25th. — What am I doing since the first of
May ? Nothing. And why ? Oh wretchedness !
I have come back from Sevres. Oh, it's dreadful ! The
landscape has changed so completely that I can do nothing
with it. It is no longer spring. And my apple blossom has
turned yellow (in the picture) ; I had used oils, but I am
an idiot, I have set it right again ; we shall see. But this
picture must be finished; what with the Salon, the news-
papers, the rain, H , and all that nonsense, I have lost
twenty-five days ; it is madness, but it's done.
My medal will be put to the vote to-day, it's four o'clock,
and raining in torrents. Last year I was sure of getting it.
and vexed at the delay of positive news. This year it is not
certain, and I am much calmer ; a year has passed since I
ought to have had it, but I dreaded the unexpected, and it
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PARIS, 1884. 667
vexed me considerably. To get it, and yet not to get it, that
is to get it for a pastel made me quite unhappy. Now that
I understand how beautiful that pastel is, i rejoice at it.
This year it will be yes or no ; it's quite simple. If it is
yes, I shall know it at eight o'clock this evening. So I shall
go and sit down in Turkish fashion in the big easy-chair near
the window, and look out of the window with my elbows on
the arms of the easy-chair. And that for four hours !
It is twenty minutes past five, and I am not more bored
than when I am doing nothing without expecting any-
thing.
And to think of the oil which has spoilt my flowers ! On
seeing it, my forehead grew moist. Let us hope that it won't
show too much. ... In two hours I shall know. You may
fancy that I am greatly agitated about it. No, I tell you —
not much more so than when, depressed and alone, I pass
a whole afternoon in doing nothing.
In any case, to-morrow's papers will tell me the result.
I am sick at heart with waiting, burning and wet with
perspiration, and my head aches.
Oh ! I shall not have it ; and it worries me on account
of mamma's emotion. I don't like other people to intrude on
my private affairs and share my feelings. I suffer from it, as
from an indelicacy. Whether I am burning, or drenched, or no
matter what, they ought to leave me in peace. It exasperates
me to think that mamma should imagine that I suffer.
There is a fog, and the air is heavy ! My throat is com-
pressed, up to the jaws and ears.
Thirty-five minutes past seven. I am called to dinner.
It is finished.
Monday, May 26th. — I am better. Instead of that
depressing expectation, I am indignant. And that's a feeling
outside one, and rather refreshing. They voted thirty-six
third-class medals yesterday, and six remain. M has
his medal for Julian s portrait.
How explain the affair ? For in short they have bestowed
rewards on comparatively poor things.
Unfairness ? I don't much like this reason, as it suits
nobodies.
They may like my painting more or less, but they cannot
overlook that here are seven well-grouped life-size children
with a background which also counts for something. All
those whose opinion is worth anything find it very good or
good ; some there are who say that I can't have done it quite
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668 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
alone — even to old Robert Fleury, who likes the picture
without knowing why it is good
And Boulanger goes about saying that he does not care
for this style, but that, all the same, it is powerful and even
very interesting.
What next ? . . . .
They have given medals to downright nobodies ! I
know well that it is the rule. But, on the other hand, every
artist of real talent has had his medals. So that, although
some daubers have medals, there is not a man of talent
without them. And then ? And then ? I, too, have eyes.
My picture is a composition.
Suppose I had dressed up these boys in mediaeval
costumes, and painted them in a studio — which is much
easier — with a background of tapestry ?
Why, I should have produced an historical picture which
would have been much appreciated in Russia.
What am I to believe ?
Here comes another request to engrave my picture,
from Baschet, the great publisher.
It's the fifth permission I have signed. What next ?
Tuesday, May 27tL — It is over. I have nothing.
How horribly vexing ! I went on hoping till this
morning. And if you knew what things have had medals
given them ! ! !
Why am I not discouraged? How surprising! If my
picture is good, why has it no reward ?
Intrigues, you will say.
All trie safhe, since it is good, why is it not rewarded ?
I won't pose as an innocent child wno has no notion of
intrigues ; yet it seems to me that, given a good thing ....
Tnen the reason is that it's bad ? Not at alL
I have eyes, even for myself .... and then the opinion
of others ! And the forty newspapers !
Thursday, May 29th. — Having been feverish all night, I
am in a state of raging irritation — in fact, nervous to
the pitch of madness. It is not entirely due to the medal,
but to the sleepless night.
I am too wretched ; I must believe in God. Is it not
natural to seek a Supernatural Power when all is misery and
misfortune, and there's no salvation ? We try to believe in
a Power above, that we have only to pray to ... . This
operation necessitates neither fatigue nor disappointment,
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PARIS, 1884. 669
nor humiliation, nor worry. You pray. The physicians are
impotent ; you ask for a miracle which does not happen,
but, at the time of asking, it consoles you. It's very little ;
God must be just ; ana if He is, how can it be ? . . . .
Reflect for a second, and you believe no longer, alas ! Why
live ? What's the use of dragging such misery along ?
Death at least offers this advantage — that you will learn the
truth about this famous other life. Unless there's nothing.
Well, one will find out on dying.
Friday, May 30th. — I consider I am very foolish for not
being seriously preoccupied with the only thing worth
troubling about — the only thing which gives all sorts of
happiness, which obliterates all sufferings — love ; of course
love. Two beings that love each other are convinced of
their absolute perfection, moral and physical, but especially
moral. A being who loves you, is just, good, loyal, generous
— ready to perform the most heroic actions quite simply.
Two beings who love each other are under the illusion
that the world is admirable and perfect, such as philosophers
like Aristotle and myself have imagined it In this, I believe,
consists the great attraction of love.
In family relationships, in friendship, in the world, in
everything, you discover the trail of human meanness.
Now it's a flash of cupidity, now of folly ; now you find
envy, baseness, injustice, infamy — in short, our best friend
has his hidden thoughts, and, as Maupassant says, man is
always alone, for he cannot read the intimate thoughts of
his best friend who sits opposite and looks at him, and
sincerely confides in him.
Well, love performs this miracle of the mingling of
souls .... It's an illusion ? No matter. That which you
believe, exists for you ! I tell you so. Love makes the world
appear as it ought to be. If I were God ....
Well, what then ?
Saturday, May Slst — Villevielle came to tell me that
they did not give me a medal because I made a row last
year about the honorary mention, and I loudly proclaimed
the committee for a set of fools. . . .
It's true I did say so.
May-be my painting is wanting in breadth and freshness ;
for if it were not, Le Meeting would be a masterpiece. Do
they expect masterpieces for third-class medals ? Baude's
engraving has appeared, with an article, in which it says
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670 MARIE BASHKTRTSEFF.
that the public is disappointed at my not getting a medaL
.... My colour is dry ! ! But the same thing is said of
Bastien.
Has any one the courage to say that M 's portrait is
better than my picture ?
M. Bastien-Lepage had eight votes for his Jeanne d'Are,
M. M. has had a medal, and the enormous M has
just had twenty-eight votes — exactly twenty more than I !
There is neither conscience nor justice. What am I to
believe ? I can make neither head nor tail of it I went
down-stairs when H came, to let this Jew see that I
am not depressed.
I had auite a contented and aggressive manner, and
went on talking of photographs, engravers, picture-buyers,
&c, till this son of Israel finally made up his mind to
say that he would like to have some dealings with
me .... although I have not had a medal. ... "I will
buy your pastel (Armandine) and the head of the
baby that laughs." Two! He speaks to Dina in order
that she may manage matters ; but we send him to
imile Bastien to settle about the price. I am much
Sunday, June 1st — I have not done anything for the
last month, owing to all this. Yes, I have been reading
Sully-Prudhomme since yesterday morning. I have two
volumes here, and I find it very good .... I don't
trouble much about the versification; it only troubles me
when it's bad, and annoys me. I am only concerned with
the idea that's expressed. If they like to rhyme, let them
rhyme! But don't let me notice it. But I am infinitely
pleased with the truly subtle ideas of Sully-Prudhomme.
And there is in him something very lofty, almost abstract
— something very delicate, very quintessential, which exactly
harmonises with my way of feeling.
I have just read — now lying on the divan, now walking
up and down my balcony — the preface to Lucretius and the
book itself, De Natura Rerum. Those who know what it
is will praise me for it ... .
A great mental effort is required to understand it all
It must be difficult reading even for those who are in the
habit of treating this subject I have understood it aiL At
times I lost the meaning, and I went over it again and
forced myself to catch it ... . I ought to respect Sully-
Prudhomme for writing things whicn I eaten with an
effort.
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PARIS, 1884. 671
The treatment of these ideas is as familiar to him as
the treatment of colours is to me. ... So he ought also
to have a pious veneration for me, because with a few
muddy pigments, as the antipathetic Th. Gautier has said,
I produce faces which express human feelings — pictures
where you see Nature, trees, atmosphere, perspectives. He
must think himself a thousand times superior to us artists
while thus uselessly sounding the mechanism of human
thought. What does he teach himself and others ?
The manner in which the mind acts by labelling all
those swift intangible movements of the intellect. ... As
for me, poor ignoramus, I think that this subtle philosophy-
will not teach anything to anybody ; it's an analysis, a delicate
and difficult amusement, but what's the good? Is it by
learning to give names to all those abstract and wonderful
things that those geniuses will be formed who will write
fine books? or those extraordinary thinkers who march in
the van of the world ?
He says further that man can only know as much of
the object as he is related to, &c. Most of those who read
me will make nothing of it, but I will still quote the
following : " It follows that science cannot exceed tne know-
ledjge of our categories applied to our perceptions." Good I
it is evident that we cannot understand more than we can
understand. That's clear.
Had I had a sensible education I should be very re-
markable. I taught myself everything. I drew up the plan
of my studies with the professors of the High School at
Nice, who could not believe their eyes. Partly by intuition,
partly guided by the books I read, I wanted to know such
and such things. Thus I read Greek and Latin, the French
and English classics, modern literature and alL
But it's a chaos, although I try to arrange it all owing
to my love of harmony in all things.
Who is Sully-Prudhomme ? I bought his books six
months ago, and after trying to read them put them aside
as pretty verses ; but now I discover things m them worthy
of captivating me, and I read them all in one sitting,
owing to Francis Copp^e's visit. But Copp6e did not speak
of them ; nor has any one else. What connection can there
be therefore ?
By very great mental efforts I should succeed, appar-
ently, in a philosophical analysis of this intellectual work.
But to what purpose? Would it change in aught my
manner of thinking ?
s s
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672 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Tliursday, June 5th. — Prater is dead He grew up with
me, for he was bought for me at Vienna in 1870 ; he was
three weeks old, and always got behind our boxes among
the parcels we bought.
He ha# been my faithful and devoted dog, howling when
I went out, and waiting for hours, sitting at the window.
In Rome I took a fancy to another dog, ana Prater with his
yellow hair and admirable eyes was taken care of by mamma,
out remained very jealous of me. To think how heartless I
was! ....
We called the new dog Pincio ; he was stolen in Paris.
Instead of taking to Prater again, I stupidly enough got Coco
the First, and then my present Coco. It was mean ; it was
contemptible. During four years these two creatures fought
each other, and the upshot was that Prater was locked up
in a top room, where he lived like a prisoner, while Coco
walked about the table and on people's heada He died
of old age. I passed two hours with him since yesterday;
he dragged himself towards me, and laid his head on my
knees.
Ah ! I am a nice wretch with my tender sentiments.
What a contemptible character ! I weep as I am writing, and
think that the traces of these tears will secure me the
reputation of a good heart with my readers. I always
intended adopting the unhappy beast again, and it always
ended in my only giving him a piece oi sugar and a pass-
ing caress.
You should have seen his tail then — his poor tail that had
been cut, which he wagged so fast, so fast that it seemed to
make a wheel with the rapidity of the motioa
The poor thing is not dead yet ; I thought he was, as he
was not m his room ; but he had crept behind some box or
bath, as formerly in Vienna, while I thought they had taken
him away, fearing to speak of it to me. . . . But he can't last
over this evening or to-morrow. . . .
Tony Robert Fleury found me in tears. I had written to
ask him something connected with the reproduction of my
picture, and he came. It seems that I had omitted signing
a little paper by which they might prevent 6thers froni
reproducing my picture, and involved me in a lawsuit
You understand tnat I am very proud of all these requests
for my permission, and that I snould be proud even of a
lawsuit.
Friday, June 6th. — I am much preoccupied by the re-
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PARIS, 1884. 673
ception at the Embassy, for fear lest something should mar
the effect I can never believe in any good thing whatso-
ever. ... It looks well enough ; but something will happen,
some hindrance. It is so long since I have vainly cried for all
these things.
We have been to the Salon — I, in order to see the picture
of the medal — and, as we met Tony Robert Fleury, I asked,
before the second-class medals, what he would say to me if
I were to bring hirn such pictures as these.
" Well, I hope that you will take good care not to produce
such painting as this," he answered, quite seriously.
" And wliat of the second medal, then ? "
" Well, but it's by a yoimg man who has exhibited for a
long time, and so ... . you see . . . ."
What a mass of mediocrities ! How depressing it is !
The pictures with the medals are not even atrocious;
they are, for the most part, drearily commonplace or bad. . .
And the others ! . . . On the whole, this exhibition is very
bad.
Sattcrday y Jane 7 th. — We are preparing in silence for
the solemn event of this evening.
This is my gown : — White silk muslin ; the front of the
bodice is formed by crossing draperies, the ends of these
<lraperies being fastened in knots on the shoulders. The
sleeve is short, consisting also of the knotted ends of the
muslin. A very broad sash of white satin, fastened with
flowing ends behind. The skirt consists of a front breadth
-draped from left to right, and falling to the feet. Behind are
two double rows of gathered muslin — one falling straight
to the ground, the other rather shorter. Nothing in the hair.
Plain white shoes. The general effect is enchanting. The
hair must be dressed d la Psyc/te with this costume. I think
the gown exceedingly graceful. The drapery in front is like
a dream. It is so simple and so delicate that I ought to look
pretty. Mamma is going to w r ear a gown of black damask
trimmed with jet, a very long train, and her diamonds.
Sunday, Jvme 8th. — I looked as well as I can look, or as I
over did. My gown produced an enchanting effect . . . And
my face was as oloonnng again as at Nice or at Rome.
Those who see me every day were quite taken aback.
We arrived rather late. Madame Fridericks was not with
the Ambassadress, with whom mamma exchanged a few
words. I am quite calm, and quite at my ease. ... A good
ss 2
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674 UAME BASHKIRTSEFF.
many acquaintances. Madame d'A , whom I have met at
the Gavinis, and who used not to bow to me, now does so
very amiably. I take Gavini's arm, who looks well with his
ribbons and his Orders. He introduces Menabrea, the Italian
Minister, to me, and we talk art Then M. de Lesseps tells
me a long story of nurses and babies and Suez Canal shares.
We remamed a good while with him. I had Chevreau's arm.
As to the others — the private secretaries and Attaches of
Embassies — I forsake them for the old men covered with
Orders.
A little later, having duly sacrificed to glory, I have a
chat with all the artists present ; they got themselves
introduced, being very curious to see me. But I was so
pretty and so well dressed that they will be convinced that
I don't paint my pictures alone. There were Cheremetieff - T
Lehmann, a very sympathetic old man of some talent ; and
lastly Edelfeldt, who nas talent — a handsome fellow, rather
vulgar, from Russian Finland. In short, it was very nice.
The chief thing, you see, is to be pretty. That's everything.
Tuesday, June 10th. — Good heavens, what an interesting
thing is the street ! The physiognomies of people, the
peculiarities of each, the plunges you take into unknown
souls.
Make it all live — or, I should say, catch hold of the life
of each. You paint a fight of Roman gladiators, whom you
have never seen, from Parisian models. Why not paint
Parisian wrestlers from the mob of Paris ? In five or six
centuries it will be ancient, and the fools of the future will
venerate it
Saturday, June 14fA. — Much company on mamma's fete-
day. I was most elegant ! Pure Louis XVI. gown of grey
taffeta, with a waistcoat of white silk muslin.
I have been to Sevres, but returned quickly. I had taken
a very good model with me. Ah ! a model is not a
genuine country girl, and I shall again take to our woman
who washes up dishes. Armandine won't do ; you can't help
feeling that she has danced at the Eden Theatre.
In short, I, who pride myself on painting people's
character, would have turned out a young woman of the
streets dressed up as a peasant girl I want a real big
goose of a girl, who dreams, overcome by the heat, and
who will yield to the first peasant who chances on her.
This Armandine is of an ideal stupidity ; I make her talk.
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PARIS, 1884. 675
When folly does not irritate, it amuses us ; yoll listen
with a benevolent curiosity, and then I get an insight into
manners ! . . . . and I round off these glimpses oy my
intuition, which I shall call remarkable, if you will allow
me.
Monday, June lGth. — This evening we go to see
Macbeth (Kichepin's translation), and Saran Bernhardt The
Gavinis are witn us.
I go so seldom to the theatre that it amuses me. But
the declamations of actors pain my artistic sense. How
beautiful it would be if these people would talk naturally !
Oh ! what declamations !
Marais (Macbeth) is good every now and then, but he is
guilty of such false theatrical intonations that it is pitiful.
As for Sarah, she is always admirable, although her golden
voice has become an ordinary one.
Tuesday, June 17th. — How my picture worries me !
And the hands are still to do ! I am no longer interested
in that apple- tree in blossom and those violets. And that
slumbering peasant girl ! A canvas a yard long would be
large enough. And I am doing it life-size ! It's spoilt And
three months thrown away ! . . .
Wednesday, June 18th. — Still at S&vres. The most aggra-
vating part of it is that I am feverish every day. Impossible
to eet fat. . . . Yet I take six or seven tumblers of goat's
milK a day.
Friday, June 20th. — The architect writes to me from
Algiers. I ended the letter I sent with our three heads,
each having a medal round the neck. Jules with the
medal of nonour, I with a first-class medal, and the
architect a second-class one for next year. I have also
sent him a photograph of Le Meeting. And he tells me
that he showed everything to his brother, who was very
glad to get an idea of the picture, of which he had heard
so much, and who exclaimed —
" What fools they are not to have given a medal to this
Eicture, which I think exceedingly good!" He would much
ave liked to write to me, but it's impossible. He continues
to suffer much, but, in spite of his sufferings, he has
decided to return in a week from now. He bade the
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676 MAEIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
architect assure ine of his friendship, and thank me for
the embroidery.
A year ago I should have been in ecstasy. He would
like to write to me ! I only enjoy it — in retrospect ; for at
the present moment I am well-nigh indifferent to it
At the bottom of the page there is my head with the
medal of honour for 1886.
He must have been touched by the delicate manner in
which I comforted his brother in my letter. The letter
began seriously, containing " encouraging words," and ended
playfully, which is my usual way.
Wednesday, June 25th. — Re-read my diaries of 1875, 1876,
and 1877. I complain in them of I know not what ; I
have aspirations towards something indefinite. Every even-
ing I felt sore and discouraged, spending my strength in
fury and despair in trying to find what to do. Go to Italy ?
Stop in Pans ? Get married ? Paint ? What was to be
done ? If I went to Italy I couldn't be in Paris and I
wanted to be everywhere at once ! ! What vigour there was
in it all ! ! ! .
As a man, I should have conquered Europe. Young
girl as I was, I wasted it in excesses of language and silly
eccentricities. Oh, misery!
There are moments when we naively fancy ourselves
capable of anything. "If I had the time I would do
sculpture, I would write, I would be a musician."
It's a fire that consumes you. And death is at the
end, inevitable — let me be consumed by vain desires or
not
But if I am nothing, if I am destined to be nothing,
why these dreams of glory since I can remember anything ?
Why these mad aspirations towards greatness which I for-
merly imagined to consist in riches and titles ? Why, from
the time tnat I had two consecutive ideas, from the age of
four, this desire for things glorious, grand, confused, but
immense? Ah, what have I not been in my childish
dreams! .... To begin with, I was a dancer, a famous
dancer adored in Petersburg. Every evening I would make
them put me on a low dress, with flowers m my hair, and
dance quite gravely in the drawing-room with the whole
household looking on. Then I was the first singer in
the world. I accompanied myself on the -harp while
singing, and I was carried in triumph — I don't know where,
or fcy whom. Next I electrified tne masses with my elo-
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PARIS, 1884. 677
quence. The Emperor of Russia married me to keep on
his throne* and I lived in close communion with my people,
and in the speeches I made explained my policy till sove-
reigns and people were moved to tears.
And then I was in love. The man I loved betrayed
me; and if he did not betray me, he died of some
accident or other — most frequently of a fall from his
horse, just at the moment when I felt that I loved
him less. Then I fell in love with another ; but it all went
very satisfactorily and morally, since they always died or
betrayed me. I got over their deaths; but when I was
betrayed, I felt endless disgust and despair, and died at
last.
In short, my dreams of everything, concerning all
branches of activity, all sentiments, all human satisfactions,
were larger than nature ; and if they can't be realised, I
had better die.
Why did not my picture get a medal ?
The medal .... They must have thought (many of
them) that I was assisted. It has happened already
that medals have been given to women who had their
pictures painted for them, and once you have received
your medal you have the right to claim admittance the
next year, although you send the most horrible daubs.
And I who am young, elegant, and mentioned in the
papers. All those people are alike .... Breslau is an
example. She told my model that if I went to fewer balls
I should have a great deal more talent. All these people
fancy that I go out every evening. How deceptive are
appearances. The mere supposition that the picture is
not mine ; it's too serious ; heaven forbid any one should
have said so! T. Robert Fleury told me ne was sur-
Erised at the result, for every time he spoke of me to
is colleagues on the committee, they said : " It's very
good ; it is a very interesting thing"
" What is one to think after they had said that ? "
asked Rctbert Fleury.
Then it is this doubt ....
Friday, June 27th. — Just as we are going out
to take a turn in the Bois, the architect comes tQ the
carriage. They have arrived this morning, and he comes
to tell us that Jules is a little better. That he stood
the voyage well, but that unfortunately he can't go out.
He would have been so pleased to tell me what a success
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678 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
my picture has had with all those to whom he has
shown the photograph in Algiers.
"Then we will go and see him to- morrow, " said
Mamma
" You could not give him a greater pleasure ; he says
that your picture .... but no, he will tell you himself;
that will be better."
Saturday, June 2StL — So we go to the Rue Legendre.
He rises at first to receive us, and takes a few steps in the
room ; I fancied he seemed ashamed of being so changed
So changed — oh ! so changed. But it is not from the
stomach he suffers. I am not a physician, but he does not
look as if it were.
But I find him so changed that I can only say : —
" And so you have come back ? " He is not repulsive, and
so winning at once, so friendly, so kind about my pictures,
telling me over and over again not to mind about medals,
that success suffices.
I make him laugh at his illness by saying that he required
it, and that it was good for him, as he was beginning to
get fat.
The architect seemed delighted at seeing his invalid so
fay and amiable. Thus encouraged, I become very talkative,
le pays me compliments on my gown and down to the
handle of my umbrella He maae me sit down at his feet
on the lounge .... Poor thin legs! . . . His eyes grown
"bigger and very clear, the hair in a tangle.
But he is very interesting, and as lie wishes it I will go
and see him again.
The architect, who accompanies us down-stairs, says the
same thing. " It gives Jules so much pleasure, and he is
so happy to see you ; he says you have a great deal of
talent, I give you my word ! "
I dwell on the manner in which they received me, as it
gives me much pleasure.
But it is a maternal feeling, very calm, very tender, and
which I am proud of as if it were a force. He will get
over it, surely.
Monday, June 30th. — I had to hold myself in perforce not
to cut my canvas in pieces with a knife. There isn't an inch
of it as I should like it.
And still a hand to do ! But when that hand is done
there is so much to re-touch ! ! ! Oh misery ! damnation !
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PARIS, 1884. 679
Three months gone, three months!
No ! ! !
I amused myself in arranging a basket of strawberries
such as you never saw before. I gathered them myself with
their stems, regular bunches, there were even green ones
for colour's sake. And such leaves ! . . . In short, mar-
vellous strawberries, gathered by an artist in the most fan-
tastic and whimsical manner, as when you are doing some-
thing unaccustomed.
And amongst it a whole bimch of red currants. In this
fashion I went through the streets of Sevres, holding the
basket on my knees in the tramway, but careful to hold it
so that the air could pass under it, lest the heat of my
body should wither the strawberries, of which not one had
a spot or a bruise.
JEiosalie laughed. " If some one at home were to see you,
Mademoiselle."
Is it possible ?
But it's for the sake of his painting, which is worth it —
not for his face, which is not But his painting deserves
all kinds of attention. . . . Then is it his picture that will
eat the strawberries ?
Tuesday, July 1st. — Still that odious Sevres!
But I come home early, at live o'clock. It's nearly
done.
But I am mortally sad, everything goes wrong.
I require some powerful antidote. And I, who don't
believe in God, I rely on Him.
After days of intolerable misery, something has always
happened to make me take to life again.
God, why do you allow us to reason, I wish so much
to believe unconditionally !
1 believe or I don't believe ; when I begin to reason I
can't believe in it But in moments of misery or of joy,
deep down in my heart the first thought is of this God
who is so hard on me.
Wednesday, Jvly 2nd. — We have been to see Jules
Bastien, in his studio this time. I really think he is better.
His mother was there. She is better-looking than her
portrait ; she's a woman of sixty, who looks at most forty -
five to fifty. Her hair, of rather a pretty blonde shade,
scarcely shows any grey ; a sweet smile ; in short, a very
sympathetic woman, very erect in her black-and-white gown ;
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680 MARIE BA8HRIRTSEFF.
she does very pretty embroidery from designs of her own
invention.
Bastien-Lepage has his two front teeth a little apart,
like mine.
Thursday, July 3rd. — This morning at seven o'clock I
went to see Potain. He examined me rather superficially,
and sends me to Eaux-Bonnes. After that he will see.
But I have his letter here, which he writes to his colleague
at the watering place. I have opened it
He says in it that the lung is attacked at the top, on
the right-hand side, and that fain the most undisciplined
and imprudent invalid in the world.
As it was not yet eight o'clock I went to the little
doctor in the Rue do l'Echiquier. I think he is a serious
sort of fellow, for he looks disagreeably surprised at my
condition, and lays great stress on my consulting one of
the leaders of the profession — Bouchard or Grancher, &c.
On my refusing, he says he will go with me if only I
will go. So I agree.
Potain will have it that I have been much worse, and
that my condition has improved in. an unexpected way,
that now the symptoms have returned, but that they may
be amended.
He is so optimistic that I must be low indeed.
Little B is not of his opinion ; he says that I have
been worse, but that the disease was acute at that time ;
and that they feared it would get worse very rapidly;
that it had not done so, and tnis was the unexpected
improvement Whereas now it's an aggravation of the
chronic disease .... In short, he is resolved to take me
to Grancher.
I will go.
Consumptive, ah !
That and the other things .... and alL It isn't funny.
And nothing pleasant to comfort me a little !
Friday, July teh. — The Sevres picture is here in the studio.
It might be called April It doesn't matter, but this April
seems so bad to me ! ! !
The background is an intense and yet muddy green.
The woman isn't at all what I wanted her to be, not at all
I have put it together anyhow, and it has nothing of
the feeling I wished to express. In short, I have muddled
away the months.
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PARIS, 1884. 681
Saturday, July 5th. — I have a charming grey linen gown,
the bodice made like a blouse, for the studio, without an atom
of trimming except the lace at the throat and sleeves. An
ideal hat with a big coquettish knot of old lace. So I felt
strongly inclined to go to the Rue Legendre, seeing I looked
so well, only it's too soon ; but why ? I must just go as a
comrade, an admirer, a good fellow, as he is so ilL
And we go. His mother is enchanted, taps me on the
shoulder, praises my beautiful hair .... The architect con-
tinues to look crushed ; since the affair of the monument he
seems in despair ; and the great painter is better.
He takes his beef-tea and egg in our presence ; his mother
comes and goes, carries everything herself to prevent the
servant coming in ; waits upon him with her own nands. He
seems to take it quite naturally, accepts our services calmly,
and without surprise. Talking of his looks somebody remarks
that he ought to have his hair cut, and Mamma begins
telling us that she used to cut her son's hair when he was
little, and her father's when he was ill " Would you like me
to cut it for you, I bring luck ? "
We laugh, but he consents at once, his mother goes to
fetch a dressing-gown, and Mamma sets about the operation,
and acquits herself successfully.
I also wished to give a snip with the scissors ; but the
creature says that I shall do mischief, and I take my re-
venge by comparing him to Samson and Delila! My next
picture.
He deigns to laugh.
His brother thus encouraged, proposes to trim his beard as
well, and does it slowly, religiously, with hands that tremble
a little.
It quite alters his countenance, and he looks no longer so
ill and changed ; his mother gives little cries of delight " At
last I see my dear little boy, my dear child ! "
What a good woman, so simple, so kind, so full of adora-
tion for her great man of a son !
They are good people.
Friday, Jidy 14th. — I have begun the treatment which
is to cure me. I feel quite calm.
Even to my painting, which looks better.
How suggestive are the people on the Boulevard des
Batignolles, and even Avenue Wagram !
Have you looked at them? Looked at the streets, and
the passers by ?
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682 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
What a: lot a seat contains ! what novels ! what dramas !
The outcast with furtive looks, resting one arm on the back
of the seat and the other on his knees ; the woman with
the child on her knees ; a woman of the people who runs
errands ; the grocer's boy, in high spirits, who has sat down to
read a little newspaper ; the workman asleep ; the philosopher
or hopeless wretch who sits smoking. I see too much,
possibly. . . . And yet look well at live or six o'clock in the
evening.
I have it, I have it, I have it !
It seems to me I have found something.
Yes, yes, yes ; I shall perhaps not do it, but my mind is at
rest It makes me dance on one foot. One has such different
moods
Sometimes I really see nothing in life ; and sometimes. . .
I find myself again in love with everything, everything that
surrounds me !
It's like a refluent tide of life ! And yet I have no
cause for rejoicing.
Ah, never mind, I shall discover a gay and adorable side
even to my death-bed ; I was made to be very happy, but . . .
Pcntrquoi dans ton oruvre celeste
Tant a" elements, si peu <V accord 1 . . .
Tuesday, July \bth. — I come back to an old plan, which
quite engrosses me, every time I see the good people on the
public seats. It might be a grand study. It is always bet-
ter to paint scenes in which the people don't mova Don't
misunderstand me, I am not against action, but there can be
neither illusion nor enjoyment in scenes of violent action to a
refined public. You are painfully (though unconsciously)
impressed by an arm which is raised to strike, and which
doesn't, by those boys who are running yet remain in
the same place. There are situations mil of movement
where it is nevertheless possible to imagine a few moments
of immobility, which is enough.
It is always better to choose the moment following on
a striking or violent action of any kind, than the one
preceding it. The Jeanne d'Arc of Bastien-Lepage had
neard voices, she has gone miickly forward, upsetting her
spinning-wheel, and has suddenly stopped, leaning against
a tree. But look at scenes where people are in the midst
of action, with their arms raised ; it may be very powerful,
but complete enjoyment is never possible.
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PARIS, 1884. 683
Look at the distribution of the flags by the Emperor
which is at Versailles.
They rush forward with lifted arms; and yet it's very
good, ior these arms were rvaitiiig, and we are stirred,
moved, carried out of ourselves, by the emotion of these
men ; we share their impatience. The impulse and movement
are tremendous, just because we can picture to ourselves a
moment's standstill during which we can look at this sceno
in peace as if it were an actual event and not a picture.
But nothing is comparable to the grandeur ot subjects
in repose, either in sculpture or painting.
A man of middling talent may succeed in producing a
sensational picture, but he will never make anything of
subjects in repose.
Look at Millet's canvases, and compare them to all the
painted exaggerations imaginable.
Look at the Moses of Michael Angelo. He is motion-
less and yet he is living. His Thinker neither stirs nor
speaks, but it is because he does not wish to ; he is a living
man absorbed in his thoughts.
The Pas Miche of Bastien-Lepage looks at And listens to
you, but he is going to speak, for lie lives.
In Les Foins, the man lying on his back with his face
covered by a hat, is asleep, but he lives. The woman sits
dreaming and does not move, but you feel she is living.
It is only a subject in repose that can give us perfect
satisfaction, it gives us time to get absorbed in it, to enter
into it, and feel.it living.
The foolish and ignorant fancy it is easier to do. Oh f
misery!
If I ever die it will be of indignation at human stupidity,
which, as Flaubert says, is infinite.
Admirable things have been written in Russia during
the last thirty years.
In reading Count Tolstoi's La Paix et la Guerre, I
was so struck that I couldn't help exclaiming —
"Why, it's like Zola!"
It is true they have devoted an essay to-day to our
Tolstoi* in La Revue des Deux Mondes, and my Russian heart
leaps for joy. The study is by M. de Vogu£, who has been
secretary at the Embassy in Russia, and has studied the
literature and manners of the country, and who has already
published several remarkably just and profound articles
on my great and admirable native land.
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684 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
And you wretch! You live in France, you prefer being
a foreigner to remaining at home 1 Since you love your
beautiful, great, sublime Russia, go thither and work for
her.
I also work for the glory of my country ... if ever I
have a great talent like Tolstoi!
But if it were not for my painting, J would go! On
my word of honour I would go ! But my work absorbs
my faculties, and the rest is merely an interval, an amuse-
ment.
Monday, July 21st. — I have been out walking for four
hours looking for a corner to take as background for my
picture. It's the street, it's the outer boulevard, but I have
still to choose.
Evidently a public seat on the outer boulevard has in-
finitely more character than a seat in the Champs-Elys^es,
where only concierges, grooms, nurses, and mashers, sit down.
There you get no study of character, no soul, no drama ;
only mannikins, except in some special instances.
But what poetry in that outcast on the edge of the
seat ! There man is genuine, there we get Shakespeare !
And now an insane imeasiness has seized me lest this
treasure I have discovered should escape me ! If I should
not be able to do it or if the time, if ... .
Listen, if I have no talent, heaven must be turning me
into ridicule, for it makes me suffer all the tortures of artists
of genius .... Alas !
Wednesday, July 23rd — I have sketched in my picture
and found the models. I have been running about La
Villette and Batignolles since five o'clock in the morning.
Rosalie goes up to the people I point out to her.
I can tell you it's not easy or comfortable.
Friday, August 1st. — If I dish you up moving phrases,
don't let yourself be caught by them.
Of the two selves who are trying to live, one says to the
other: — "But in heaven's name have a sensation of some
kind ! " And the other one, who attempts to feel something,
is always dominated by the • first, by the Moi-Spectateur,
which continues observing and absorbing the second.
And will it always be so ?
And love ?
Well, to tell you the truth, it seems impossible when you
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PARIS, 1884. 685
see human nature through the microscope. The others are
very happy, they only see what is necessary.
Would you like to know ? Well, then, I am neither
Sainter, nor sculptor, nor musician ; neither woman, nor
aughter, nor friend Everything reduces itself with me
into subjects of observation, reflection, and analysis.
A look, a face, a soimd, a joy, a sorrow, are immediately
weighed, examined, verified, classified, noted down. And when
I have said or written it, I am satisfied
Saturday, August 2nd. — Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday,
Friday, and Saturday. Five days. I have done my picture.
We began the same day with Claire, and the same subject, a
canvas of four feet six mches by three feet six inches ; it's
pretty large, you see. The Beaver, in Hugo's poem, a farm
in the background, a young girl is sitting on the water's
edge and speaking to a boy standing on the other side of
the stream.
And suppose what I am doing is very good. It isn't
possible, and for that matter there is something too common-
place in the expression of the faces, but I wanted to do it
quickly. And it is so funny I You say to yourself: " Now,
here's a bit that's turned out uncommonly well" . . . then
again, " But this is good for nothing." And again, " In fact,
it's very good, a really pretty picture." Claire has not finished
her picture, she is going to finish it from mine.
I should like to sing the praises of the things I admire
most.
I admire people who dare make remarks of their own.
I admire people who see me painting and nudge my elbow
for fun, without any bad or even malicious intention.
As for me, when I see Angelique sewing, I feel a kind
of respect, and, in short, I should never dream of amusing
myself in this way.
How dare they ! ... In short, it's incomprehensible.
But what a lot of things there are that shock me, good
heavens !
Nearly all true artists, all workers, feel like me.
I also admire people who eat good thick slices of mutton
cutlets, consisting of fat and blood.
I admire the nappy ones who eagerly swallow strawberries
without troubling themselves about tne little worms which
one is nearly sure to find in them.
I examine each one, so that the pain is almost greater
than the pleasure.
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686 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
Again, I admire those who can eat all kinds of hashed and
fricasseed things of which the ingredients are unknown.
I admire .... or I may say rather, I envy all simple,
sane, and everyday natures. but what would
you ?
Tliursday, August 7th — Friday, August 8th — Saturday,
August 9th. — The ladies have taken a little ice-making
machine to Rue Legendre. He wished to have one to stand
near his bed.
If only he doesn't think that things are lavished on him
in order to get a picture out of him.
My picture is laid in. But I have no courage.
I nave often to lie down and rest, and each time I get
up my head turns round, and for some seconds everything
swims before me. In short it has reached such a pass, that I
have left my canvas about five o'clock to walk about the
solitary avenues of the Bois.
Monday, August 11th. — I went out at five o'clock this
morning to make a sketch, but there were already people
about, and I had to go away furious.
In the afternoon I go again through the streets, nothing
goes right any longer.
I go to the Bois.
Tuesday, August Ylth. — In fact, my friend, the meaning
of it all is that I am ill. I drag myself along and I struggle ;
but this morning I really thought I should have to capitulate —
I mean go to bed and give up doing anything. Then all at
once I got back some strength, and l went out again to try
and find some things for my picture. Mv weakness and
preoccupation isolate me from the real world ; I never saw
it with such lucidity, a lucidity beyond what I am usually
capable of experiencing.
It appears now in all its details with a depressing
clearness.
I, a foreigner, an ignorant girl, and too young as yet,
pick and choose the badly turned phrases of the greatest
writers and the silly inventions of the most celebrated
poets. As for the newspapers, I can't read three lines
without indignation. Not only because their French is like
a cook's, but owing to the want of truth in the ideas. It's
all conventional or done for pay.
No honesty, no sincerity, anywhere !
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PAULS, 1K8I-. <J87
And then to hear honourable men, in order to conform
to the spirit of party, tell lies or talk nonsense which they
can't really believe !
Why, it is sickening.
After leaving Bastien we came home to dinner ; he is
still in bed, but looks calm and his eyes are clear. He has
grey eyes, whose exquisite beauty is of course lost on the
vulgar.
Do you understand me ? Eyes that have seen Joan of
Arc — we speak of that.
He complains of not having been understood better.
And I tell him that he has been understood by everybody
who is not a brute. And that his Jeanne d'Arc is a work
of which we think things which it is impossible to tell him
to his face.
Saturday, August 16th. — This is the first day on which I
have actually set to work in a cab, and I was so cramped
with cold, that on coming home I had to have a douche
on my back, &c.
But how pleasant it is ! The architect has placed my
canvas this morning. His brother is better, and has been
to the Bois. He was carried down-stairs and up-stairs in an
easy-chair. Felix told us when he brought us the milk
at four o'clock.
During the last week he has been taking goat's milk,
of our goat ; imagine the delight of the ladies. But that
is not all, for he has grown so intimate that he sends for
some whenever he wants it. How charming !
But since he is better we shall lose him soon. The
good time seems drawing to its close. We can't pay calls
on a man who goes out.
Don't let me exaggerate, however.
He went to the Bois, but was carried in an easy-chair,
and on coming in went to bed again.
That isn't really going out.
Tuesday, August 19th. — I am so knocked up that I
hardly have strength to put on a cotton gown without
any stays to go out and see Bastien. His mother
receives us reproachfully. Three days ! We have been
three days without coming ! Really dreadful ! We are
no sooner in the room than £mile exclaims : — " Is it all
over ? Have you no friendship left ? " — " Well, well, have
T T
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688 MARIE BASHKIBTSEFF.
you given me up ? " Says he himself: — " Ah, that isn't
kind
My coquetry would wish me to repeat here all his amiable
reproaches and protestations that we can never, never, come
too often.
Thursday, August 2lst. — I loaf about all day, and only
work in the cab from five to seven o'clock.
I have had a photograph taken of the corner I am
painting so as to get the lines of the pavement quite
correctly.
The undertaking took place at seven o'clock this
morning. The architect came by six o'clock ; then we all
left together — Rosalie, the architect, Coco, the photographer,
and myself.
Not that the presence of the brother is of any use, but
it makes it more gay ; I like having a little itat-major
about me.
Friday, August 22nd. — It is all over, he is doomed 1
Baude, who has spent the evening here with the archi-
tect, tells mamma so.
Baude is his great friend ; he wrote a long letter to
him from Algiers which I have read
Is it really all over?
Can it be ?
But I have not yet been able to analyse the effect which
this abominable news has produced on me.
This is a new sensation: to see a man who is con-
demned to death.
Tuesday, August 26th. — All the confusing thoughts which
floated through my brain have now grouped themselves and
settled on this black spot.
It is a new case within my experience, something unex-
pected, a man .... a young man, a great artist and ....
you know what, in short ....
Condemned to death !
But that is becoming serious !
And every day, till it happens, I shall have to think of it !
How terrible !
I am already inwardly prepared, with my head between
my shoulders, awaiting the blow.
Has it not been the same all my life? When the blow
is about to be struck, I await it with firmness.
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PARIS, 1884. 689
Then I begin to reason, to rebel, and to be moved when
it is all over.
I can't put two words together.
But don't think that I am unhappy, I am only pro-
foundly absorbed, and ask myself what it will be.
Saturday, August 30th. — Most serious. I don't do any-
thing. Since the Sevres picture is finished I have done
nothing — nothing except two wretched panels.
I sleep for hours in the daytime. True, I have done my
little study in the cab, but you would laugh at it.
The canvas is placed on the easel; all is ready, it is
only I who am missing.
If I were to tell everything ! The horrible fears . . .
And here's September, the bad weather is near.
The least chill I now take may force me to keep my
bed for two months, and then there'll be the convales-
cence. . . .
And my picture ! ! I shall have sacrificed everything
and ....
ydfThe moment has come to believe in God and to
P ra y
Yes, it is the fear of being taken ill ; in the state I am
in, an attack of pleurisy may carry me off in six weeks.
This is the way I shall end, no doubt
As I shall work at my picture all the same .... and
as it will be cold. . . . And for that matter I may take cold
in going for a walk as well as in painting; people who
don't paint die just the same .... Enfin !
This, then, will be the end of all my miseries!
Such aspirations, such desires, such plans, such . . . and
all to die at twenty-four years of age, on the threshold of
everything.
1 had foreseen it As God was not able to give me all
that was necessary to my life without being too partial,
he will make me die. All these years — these many years !
so little — then nothing!
Wednesday, September 2nd. — I am making the drawing
for the Figaro, with rests of an hour between, as
I am dreadfully feverish. I can't go on. I have never
been so ill ; but as I don't say anything about it, I go
out and I paint. Why mention it ? I am ill, that's enough.
Will talking about it do any good ? But to go out.
t t 2
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(590 MAHIE BASHKIHTSEFF.
The illness is of a kind which allows it when you are
feeling better.
Thursday, September Wth. — On Tuesday I began the
study of a naked child ; it may make a subject if it is
good.
The architect came yesterday, and his brother wants to
know why we have been missing so long. So we went to
the Bois, late this evening ; ne was out for his usual
turn ; I took his seat ; and you may imagine the surprise of
all three at finding us there. He gives me his two hands,
and in returning he gets into our carriage, while my
aunt goes back with his mother. A good habit for that
matter.
Saturday, September 13th. — We are friends, he loves us;
he respects and takes an interest in me, he is fond of me. He
told me yesterday that I did wrong to worry myself, that I
ought to consider myself very lucky . . . . X o other woman,
he says, has had a success like mine and after so few years
of study.
" In short, vou are well known ; people speak of Mile.
Bashkirtseff ; all the world knows you. A genuine success !
But there, you would like two Salons a year ; get on faster,
still faster !
" It is only natural, I own, one is ambitious : I have
gone through it alL" . . . . &c.
And to-day he said:
" People see me driving in the carriage with you ; it is
lucky that I am ill, ot they would accuse me of having
painted your picture."
"They have already said so," adds the architect.
" Not in the press ! "
" Oh no ! "
Wednesday, Septendwr 17tlt. — Few days pass that I am not
troubled by the remembrance of my father. I ought to have
gone and taken care of him to the end. He said nothing,
because he is like me, but he must have felt my absence
cruelly. Why didn't I ?
I think of it since Bastien-Lepage is here, and that we go
so often to see him, spoiling him with all kinds of tender
little attentions.
Isn't it very bad, really ?
As far as mamma is concerned it is different, as she had
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PARIS, 1884. 691
been separated for several years, and only on good terms
during the last tive years; but I who was the daughter . . . !
Then God will punish me. But, dear me, once you go
deeply into things, you owe nothing to your parents unless
they nave lavished every care upon you since you came into
the world.
But that needn't prevent — but I haven't time to go into
this question. Bastien-Lepage makes me feel remorse. This
is God's punishment. But if I don't believe in God ? I
can't tell, and even then .... I have my conscience, and
my conscience reproaches me for what I did.
And then it is impossible to say, I don't believe in God.
That depends on what we understand by God. If the God we
love ana long for really existed, the world would be different.
There is no God wno hears my evening prayer, and I pray
every evening in spite of my reason.
Si le rJel est desert, nous n'offensons personnej
Si quelqu'un nous entend, quHl nous prenne en pitie.
Yet how is it possible to believe ?
Bastien-Lepage is very ill, we meet him in the Bois, his
face convulsed with pain. ... all the Charcots were there ;
this is done so that the doctor himself may be brought
one day as if by accident. They have gone, and Bastien says
that it's abominable of us to have abandoned him for two
days.
Thursday, September ISth. — I have seen Julian! I had
missed him. But it is so long since we have seen each
other, that we didn't seem to have much to say. He
thinks I have a look of tranauillity, of having attained
my aim. Art is everything ; tne rest is not worth while
considering.
There is quite a family gathering round Bastien-Lepage ;
the mother and daughters, they remain to the end, but look
like good, very gossipmg women.
This monster of a Bastien wants to take care of me, he
wants to cure me of my cough in a month ; he buttons my
jacket for me, and always worries about my being sufficiently
wrapped up.
\\ hen Bastien had got into bed everybody sat down as
usual on the left side of his bed ; I went and sat down on the
right-hand side ; then turning his back on the others, he
settled himself comfortably, andbegan very softly talking of art.
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692 MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
There's no doubt of it, he has a friendship for ine, and
even a selfish friendship. When I told him that beginning
from to-morrow I meant to set to work, he answered :
"Oh, not yet! Don't let go of me." . . .
Friday, September 19th. — He is worse. . . . We didn't
know what to do : to go or to remain with this man, crying
out with pain, then smiling at us !
I am horrible. I speak of it without delicacy. It seems
to me that I might find w r ords that are more ... I mean,
less .... Poor child J
Wednesday, October 1st — Such disgust and such sadness.
What is the good of writing ?
My aunt has left for Russia on Monday ; she will arrive
at one o'clock in the morning.
Bastien grows from bad to worse.
And I can't work
My picture will not be done.
There, there, there !
He is sinking, and suffers terribly. When I am there I
feel detached from the earth, he floats above us already;
there are days when I, too, feel like that. You see people,
they speak to you, you answer them, but you are no longer of
the earth ; it is a tranquil but painless indifference, a little
like an opium-eater's dream. In a word, he is dying. I only
go there from habit; it is his shadow, I also am half a
shadow ; what's the use ?
He does not particularly feel my presence, I am useless ;
I have not the gift to rekindle his eyes. He is glad to see me.
That's all
Yes, he is dying, and I don't care ; I don't realise it ;
it is something which is passing away. Besides, all is over.
All is over.
I shall be buried in 1885.
ITiursday, October 9th. — You see, I do nothing. I have
a fever all the time. My doctors are two precious idiots.
I have sent for Potain, and again placed myself in his paws.
He cured me once. He is kind, attentive, honest. It seems
that my emaciation has nothing to do with my lungs ; it is
a thing I caught accidentally, and of which I didn't speak,
always hoping that it would pass of itself, and preoccupied
by my lungs, which are not worse than before.
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PARIS, 1884. 693
I need not bore you with my illnesses. But the fact
is, I can do nothing ! ! ! Nothing !
Yesterday I had begun dressing to go to the Bois, and
felt so weak that I was on the point of giving it up
twice.
But I got there all the same.
Mme. Bastien-Lepage is at Damvillers since Monday, for
the vintage, and although there are ladies with him he is
glad to see us.
Sunday, October 12th. — I was not able to go out. I am
quite ill although not laid up. The doctor copies every
second day since Pot^in's visit, who sends me his sub-
Potain. .
God ! O God ! My picture, my picture !
Julian has come to see me. So they have said that I
am ill.
Alas, how hide it ? And how can I go to Bastien-
Lepage ?
Thursday, October 16th. — I have a terrible amount of
fever, which exhausts me. I spend all my time in the
salon, changing from the easy-chair to the sofa.
Dina reads novels to me. Potain came yesterday, he
will come again to-morrow. This man no longer needs
money, and it he comes, it is because he takes some little
interest in me.
1 can no longer go out at all, but poor Bastien-Lepage
comes to me ; he is carried here, put in an easy-chair, and
stretched out on cushions — I am in another chair drawn
up close by, and so we sit until six o'clock.
I was dressed in a cloud of white lace and plush,
all different shades of white ; the eyes of Bastien-I^page
dilated with delight.
" Oh, if I could only paint ! " said he.
And I—
Finis. And so ends the picture of this year !
Saturday, October 18th. — Bastien-Lepage comes nearly
every day. His mother has returned, and they came all
three !
Potain came yesterday, I am no better.
Sunday, October 19th. — Tony and Julian to dinner.
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<J94 MAUIE HA8HK1IITSEFF.
Monday, October 20th. — In spite of the magnificent
weather, Bastien-Lepage comes here instead of going to
the Bois. He can scarcely walk any more; his brother
supports him under each arm, almost carrying him. And
once in his easy-chair the poor child is worn out. Ah,
misery ! And how many concierges enjoy good health !
Emile is an exemplary* brother. He carries Jules down-stairs
on his shoulders, and up-stairs to the third storey. I meet
with equal devotion from Dina, My bed has been in
the drawing-room these last two days ; but as the room is
large, and divided by screens, couches, and a piano, you
don't notice it. It is too difficult for me to go up-stairs.
(Here the Journal ends. — Marie Bashkirtsefi* died eleven
days later, on the 31st October, 1884.)
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Lost in 8amoa. A Tale of Adventure in the
Navigator Islands. By Edward S. Ellis.
On Board the "Esmeralda;- or, Martin
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Lost among White Africans : A Boy's
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For Queen and King ; or, the Loyal
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well-known Writers.
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The Smuggler's Cave
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Luke Barnioott.
Little Bird.
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The Elchester College
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Stories, &c 6d. each.
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Illustrated, is. each; cloth gilt, is. 6d.
Those Golden 8ands.
Little If others ana their
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Our Schoolday Hours.
Creatures Tame.
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Tittlo Tattle TaleB.
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Diamonds in the Sand.
Surly Bob.
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The Cost of Berenge.
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Cook Robin, and other Nursery Rhymes.
Tne •_„___._
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The Queen of Hearts.
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Tuneful Lays for Merry Days.
Cheerful Songs for Young Polks.
Pretty Poems for Young Feople.
Pretty Piotures and Pleasant Stories.
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Maid Marjory.
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Marion's Two Homes.
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8ohool Girls.
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Freedom's Sword : A Story of the Days
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Swan.
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Myself and my Friends. By Olhre Patch.
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A Parcel of Children. By Olive Patch. With
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trations. Boards, rs. ; doth. rs. 6d.
My Diary. With Twelve Coloured Plates sad
366 Woodcuts, is.
Cheerful Clatter. Nearly One Hundred Full.
page Pictures. 3s. 6d.
Twilight Fancies. Full of charming Pictures
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Rambles Round London Town. By C L.
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Field Friends and Forest Foes.
Patch. Profusely Illustrated. 5s.
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